Our Time Has Come
by aNaNoWriMomous
Summary: DRR, Gibson. Covers 2002-2013. Current year: 2009. Current chapter: Monica continues on her quest. Special guest stars: Frank and Jordan Black from Millennium. 2010 NaNoWriMo novel so please forgive spelling/grammar. One day I'll get it beta'ed.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue: Alone

And that was it. Mulder and Scully were gone. The supersoldier was destroyed. The copters had left. The Anasazi ruins were obliterated, smoke and a few flames rising from the rubble. John and Monica sat in an SUV, a few miles away, watching quietly the smoke plumes, and listening to the silence. He wasn't sure when she'd done it, but at some point he realized his hand was in hers, and when he did realize it, he squeezed it. It was a good fifteen minutes before they spoke, and even then it was only brief.

"Do you think they're gone for good?"

"Maybe. I don't know. What are we going to do?"

John started up the car. "We're going to get back to DC. We gotta get Gibson somewhere safe. And I guess, we go back to work."

Chapter One: A New Life

Gibson felt like a prisoner. He'd enjoyed his relative freedom in the desert, hidden among the Navajo, with infrequent but often visits from Mulder. Ever since he'd shown up in DC, he hadn't been allowed out of anyone's sight. Skinner was not used to teenagers. Or children. Or infants. He seemed to clump them all together in his head. But he wasn't too bad, as far was captors went. He let Gibson watch TV. He rarely talked to him. Got him whatever he wanted to eat. Gibson tried to pretend he was on vacation, but vacation shouldn't be so boring, and instead he just felt trapped.

He was almost happy to see John and Monica, except that John was so by-the-book that it felt like Skinner was just handing over the prisoner. Monica smiled at him and he knew that Mulder and Scully had taken off somewhere and she didn't expect them to return. And John had already taken on the responsibility of protecting him, his mind racing with options as to where to hide him away next. None of these ideas seemed to include returning to his friends, and he didn't like that much. They all thought of him as a child, but he felt like a man. They didn't understand the kind of childhood he'd had. They didn't understand the self-reliance that he had developed over the years, that he was his best protector.

John placed a firm hand on his shoulder and shook hands with Skinner. He would take the boy home with him for the night. The three of them drove back, late that night. They looked terrible, John and Monica, he thought, still covered in the dust of the desert, smelling of sweat, hair tousled. Monica was fighting to stay awake, her mind racing with images of a supersoldier flying towards her, being devoured by the mountain. John's mind was occupied with planning Gibson's fate, supersoldiers, conspiracies, the x-files, his role in Mulder's escape.

They ordered pizza that night. No one had really talked to him much, other than to ask him how he was doing, if he was hungry, what did he want for dinner, would pizza be ok? Nothing about if he wanted to stay there, nothing if he missed his friend, whom Skinner had sent home. He didn't want to be there, but he figured he could get out soon enough.

He felt the question coming, as John sat there picking at the peppers on his pizza but not eating. He hadn't really been thinking of it much, as he was pre-occupied with all his other worries, but now, in the quiet of his home, he started to relax and let his mind wander. "You really read minds?"

Gibson nodded. "You're going to ask me to read your mind. You're thinking about me. Now about the number twelve. Now about supersoldiers and if I might know anything, if I've read anyone's mind about them. Mulder knows more. He knew about the magnetite. He knows that they were constructed to help the aliens take over the earth. He knows more than I am allowed to say."

John nodded. "You know I'm trying to figure out how to keep you safe?"

"I told you before you couldn't do that. I know you want to, but you can't."

"I don't like being told I can't do something. And frankly, I don't believe you. You've supposedly got some powers of seeing into the future or something, right?"

"Precognizance, John," said Monica, who had been listening quietly and intently.

"Sometimes I know when things are going to happen."

"And you think you know I'm going to fail you?"

"No, I just know that you can't help me. No one can. The forces at work are greater than all of us."

"Ah, so you're just being fatalistic."

Gibson shrugged.

"Are you getting tired, Gibson?" asked Monica gently. "Why don't we go make up the bed for you, ok?"

"You don't want to leave."

Monica smirked at him. And thought to him, Careful. She didn't want him treading inside her head, dragging out words she preferred stay hidden from John.

"He doesn't want you to leave either. And it's probably safer for me anyway if you stay."

John got up. "I think it is time for you to go to bed." He led him to the guest room, Set out a towel, a new toothbrush, some pajamas that Gibson knew would swallow him. "If you need anything, just holler." And then he closed the door.

Back downstairs, he had only just sat next to Monica, who looked more expectant than he felt comfortable with, when the phone rang. It was someone from HR, requesting he report to his AD at 8:15 in the morning. Monica's phone rang shortly thereafter. "They want to see me at 8:30," she said. Fifteen minutes was not a good sign.

"Did you want to stay?" he asked, just in case Gibson had lied or misunderstood her thoughts.

She nodded. "I really don't want to drive back to DC tonight. And… with everything that happened, I'm not sure I really want to be alone."

He figured that that was what Gibson had really meant. She was just worn out and understandably shaken by everything they had gone through. He was grateful she wanted to stay. She brought a calm with her that he desperately needed tonight.

"You mind if I set you up in my bed?" he asked, and then quickly added, "I'll sleep on the couch," so that she wouldn't think he was making an improper pass at her.

She gave him a smile that looked like she was fighting back a larger smile. "I would offer to sleep on the couch, but you would never let me, would you?"

"No ma'am," he said with a smile showing that he was just being funny with the ma'am business.

In his room, he stripped the sheets, for she certainly would never have told him that she wanted to sleep in sheets that smelled of him. They worked together to pull the fitted sheet over all the corners, and he took the last corner, the hardest one to fit, for himself, of course. The top sheet was draped over the bed, pulled even, and John tucked in the corners with military precision.

As soon as the comforter settled on to the bed, Monica took advantage of it and flopped down on her back. John laughed. "So much for my hard work," he said, and sat down next to her.

"I think there's a good chance my career with the FBI might end tomorrow."

"I know," she said. "I might not have a job tomorrow either."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm not sure. I can't imagine not doing what I've been doing. Especially now. Especially knowing everything that we know. What about you?"

"I think I will try to get Gibson somewhere safe, and maybe get back into law enforcement. But I feel like I exhausted that path already. And it won't be enough. Not now."

They didn't speak. There was so much going on in their own heads. He patted her arm and wished her goodnight.

As she lay there, unsure of what the future would bring, she knew one thing. She knew she loved John Doggett, and she knew he loved her too, even if he was still afraid to show her, or admit it to himself. She knew as she lay there in that bed, that one day she would lie beside John as his wife. She had known this for a long time. She only wished she knew when he would finally let her in, when he would let down his barriers, when he would be ready to start a new life with her.

Chapter Three: Expecting the Unexpected.

She woke up at a quarter to five the next morning, wide awake. This did not normally happen without a reason. Most mornings she slowly came into consciousness, feeling the sheets on her skin, wiggling her toes, looking out to see how much light there was in her room, yawning, stretching, and thinking. She would get up, center herself with a half an hour of yoga if she had the time, and then begin her day.

But today wasn't normal. If she woke up this suddenly, there was something wrong. She listened hard, but heard nothing. She slipped out of bed, laid her hand on her weapon, but it didn't feel right. Something else was the matter. She tread down the stairs, past the empty couch, and into the kitchen, where John stood, his hands clutching a cup of coffee, his mind far, far away.

"John?" she said gently so as not to scare him.

"Hey. Did I wake you?"

She scrunched her face with a touch of incredulity. "Of course not. I just… I woke up and I'm not sure why. Is something wrong?"

It made him nervous when she did this, when she acted like she could feel and sense things. His stomach twisted uncomfortably. It didn't help that she was right. And there was no point in denying it or holding the truth from her when she would know soon enough.

"I think if they dismiss me, I'm going to take the boy and watch over him myself. We'll go somewhere far away and secluded and I'll keep him safe."

Monica nodded. It hurt that he would just leave like that, especially when things between them had been progressing. She had thought that now, finally, they were on the final trajectory that would bring them together. This would be a major disappointment. But she understood. And she was patient. God, was she patient.

So, she nodded. "Where do you think you're going to go?"

"Well, he was doing good in the desert, but maybe not there. I mean, they probably already know where he was. There are plenty of places to go. Just gotta find a place that's secluded, a place that we can live under the radar. Maybe somewhere where he can go to school or do things a normal kid gets to do, like, I dunno, play ball or something."

She smiled at him. "He doesn't strike me as an athlete."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah. I understand." She didn't elaborate that she understood that he was a father without a son, that he recognized that Gibson was a boy without a father. She didn't feel like it was a good thing, necessarily, and she worried that John could get hurt in the process.

She felt hurt too. She didn't seem to play a part in his plan. He wasn't telling her details, and she knew he would already have his destination picked out. He wouldn't tell her, of course, to protect her.

"Do you want to meet before the meetings? Down in the office? I know nothing's there, but … I guess, it would be a good place to say goodbye."

"Yeah, that'd be good. I'll have to bring Gibson, of course. Do you mind sitting with him during my meeting?"

"Not at all. I think I'm going to head home now though, since I'm awake. I've got to change into something professional."

She wanted him to say something. But it didn't surprise him that he had nothing to say, that he let her slip out without so much as a goodbye, that he didn't hug her or try to stop her at all.

She wanted to cry as she drove home in the dark, but she held it back. In time they would be together. So she couldn't have him now, that did not mean he was lost to her forever.

They met down in the office. Since they'd found it in shambles, it had taken another hit. The walls were bare. The desks had been removed. Monica looked up and saw that even the pencils, which she hadn't noticed herself until she'd been installed in the office for two months, even they were gone.

"I can't believe it's over."

"It's never really over," said Gibson, sounded less sage than tired.

She walked through the rooms, touching the walls, remembering everything she'd seen and experienced over the last year. She thought about Scully and William. Finding Mulder dead in the field. She remembered demons and monsters and all the other horrors she'd seen.

"It's all interconnected." Gibson's voice was strong. She didn't know why he was telling her this, but she knew he was in her mind, going through her thoughts.

"The cases?"

He nodded. "Everything in the x-files. There's a connection. It's one of the things Mulder was looking for. He wasn't sure, but I think he's right."

She wasn't sure she could handle such a discussion, not here in the Hoover Building, not here in their former office, not now at the end.

"We should go upstairs," was all she could say.

The first thing they noticed as they approached the door was that Skinner's name plate had been removed. They shared a look and took a seat, with Gibson in between them. A secretary they had never seen before buzzed the person they assumed was inside Skinner's office and let him or her know that his 8:15 and 8:30 had arrived.

Then they waited.

At 8:15, John was sent in. He recognized the man as one of the "judges" on the panel that had convicted Mulder, and he knew immediately that this was a very, very bad thing indeed.

"Mr. Doggett."

"Sir. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name at the trial."

The man let this stand as a statement and ignored John's obvious request to know his name.

"We believe that you were a participant in the escape from military prison of former agent Fox Mulder."

John let this stand on its own and refused to agree.

"Though at the moment the evidence is not strong enough to implicate you, there is enough suspicion to warrant your immediate dismissal."

John wanted to argue, but more than that, he wanted to get out of this in a position that would still allow him to protect Gibson. He handed over his gun and badge and started to walk out the door, assuming they were through.

"One more minute, Mr. Doggett. We also would like you to know that the boy, this Gibson Praise, would be in much better hands if you would allow us to put him in protective custody."

"My understanding, Mr. …," again the man refused to satisfy John's curiosity, "my understanding is that the boy has been in the witness protection program and was failed in that. He was left at a school with no real protection to speak of, and when the ones he was hiding from finally tracked him down, there wasn't much in the way of help for him.

"And my understanding is that the FBI was already there, as were you and Agent Scully," he said, and John took note of his addressing Scully still with her title. "The boy suffered a broken leg, but that was the result of his tripping, and was not an injury inflicted by his pursuers."

"It was an injury he sustained while running from a man who was trying to kill him, a man of some kind who had disguised himself as Agent Mulder. And I also understand that this _man_ captured one of Gibson's friends from the school, tried to strangle her and left her battered body hidden in the hospital. Who was protecting her?"

"And so you think that you can do better than the entire FBI?"

"I think I can."

"Well, Mr. Doggett, I should advise you that until Gibson Praise is officially removed from the witness protection program, you cannot take him out of DC, which is the area in which he was officially put into the program."

"So you are saying that he cannot stay in my home?"

"I think we can make some kind of arrangement. I will make note that he is staying at your residence in Fall's Church. We will start the process of removal. Gibson Praise does not have family, it seems, and his legal guardian is listed as Walter Skinner, who is currently under suspension. We will need to establish his mental capacity, his emotional standing, and assess whether or not he is of sound enough mind to decide for himself whether he would like to stay under the FBI's protection or yours. I will contact you later today about setting up an appointment. Now, though, Mr. Doggett, I have another appointment. You will find Agent Wade outside the door. He will escort you to human resources where you can fill out your separation papers. Thank you."

John left the room.

Outside the door, there was a young agent with a hard look in his eye, as though he'd been prepared to escort a hardened criminal back to his cell in solitary. Monica stood up and he could tell by the way she looked at him that she wanted to know for sure how it had gone. No sooner had he opened his mouth than the young agent lightly touched his elbow and gestured towards the door. He just shook his head at her and walked away with Gibson.

Monica said stonily in front of the unknown man. She had not been fired, which did not bring the relief that she thought it would. Instead, she'd been reassigned. Demoted, really. For the time being, she would be a paper pusher up in financial crime, something that she had no background in. She knew this was a punishment, but she wasn't quite ready for the next part.

"We are in the process of arranging your next position, after this temporary position. Your transfer to DC from New Orleans was not originally requested by this office, but was rather based on a recommendation from your former partner, John Doggett, which was approved by AD Skinner. We are reviewing this transfer at the moment, but I should warn you that it is highly likely that you will have to return to the New Orleans field office, though there is a possibility of selecting another office, if you prefer. Your skills are much desired, I am told. For the meantime, however, you are to report to the second floor. Agent Wade will meet you at the door to escort you to your new work area. A desk has already been prepared for you. You have a meeting with human resources at one o'clock to fill out the requisite paperwork for this temporary position. Thank you for your time, Agent Reyes."

So she was still employed. And they were doing what they could to keep her away from John. She needed to call him, but that was impossible with an agent at her side.

Her new desk was one of a dozen others in a large room. All eyes were upon her, as they wondered what she had done. By then, everyone knew full well that the mysterious x-files had been closed but they were all baffled as to what had gone done. The infamous Mulder and the well respected Skinner had both been removed. Even the ice queen Scully and straight-laced Doggett were supposedly no longer agents.

Monica was thick-skinned from years of being the oddball agent, but the tension was thick and her worries for Doggett were extreme. When lunch came around, she shot out the building and was on her phone immediately. John did not answer. She thought about leaving, but she realized it was impulsive of her, that she needed to find out for sure what was going on. And she reminded herself that John would let her know when he needed her. Perhaps her continuing employment with the FBI was a blessing, the workings of a fate she did not yet understand. She was still on the inside, and maybe she could be of use.

She became aware that she was being tailed by a couple of agents and decided to play nice and head back in.


	2. Chapter 2

When work ended, she headed home. She closed her door and stood there, looking at that huge open space. It had never seemed so foreign to her. She felt disconnected from her home, from her belongings. She touched a vase, a framed photo, the back of a chair and felt nothing for them. She went to her room and sat on the bed and did not feel comfortable. Her closet was open and her eyes fell on a large bag that she sometimes used for short trips out of town. It called her. Before she knew it, it was packed. All the basics were in there. If, and she was trying her hardest to not get her hopes up too high, if John decided to bring her along, she needed to be prepared. She set the bag beside her door and sat in a chair, tense and unsure. She wanted to call Scully or her mother or John, but Scully was gone, her mother wouldn't understand and she didn't think she should tell her anyway, and John… She dialed his number again, but still ended up in his voicemail.

It was a balmy evening, the evening air much too warm for May in DC. Her feet took her past an ATM and she withdrew what she could and figured tomorrow she could go and get more, though they would no doubt be keeping tabs on her bank account. With $300 in cash in hand, she got in her car and drove to Fall's Church.

The lights were one and when she knocked, John actually answered the door. "Hey," he said casually and almost happily. "Come on in. We were just about to sit down for dinner. Nothing fancy, just burgers, but I gotta admit, I grill up a mighty fine burger." He grinned with pride and she felt a little off-balance by his lighthearted mood.

"Everything ok, John?" she asked as she set her purse down. "I called you a few times today and you didn't answer."

"Ah, did you? I must have missed that. Sorry. Everything ok with you?" He seemed a little too casual under the circumstances. She looked around the room to see if she was missing something. No one was there. He ignored her as she studied the room and began to walk around until she found Gibson at the table. _Has he been tapped again? Are they watching us?_

"Maybe," he said simply and then turned away. "Probably."

She took a seat and John did as well. But when she put a reassuring hand on his arm he pulled away and suddenly got up from the table. "Let me get you something to drink, Agent Reyes."

"Thanks, John." Apparently he was afraid that they were watching. Or at least he feared that they were. _Has he looked?_ she asked Gibson. He nodded slightly. _And has he found anything?_ He shook his head.

And so they ate their dinner occupying themselves with the most innocuous table discussions they could. Yet she found her heart touched nonetheless by his questions about her day. She knew that he was just trying to keep the conversation light and away from more important matters, but she allowed herself to enjoy it as though he were really interested.

She tried to tidy up for him afterward, but he took the plates out of her hand. "You should get going before it gets too late. I'll call you tomorrow, ok?" Her eyes burned with the need to cry, but when she looked at him, she could see the apology in his eyes and so she nodded and asked if she could use the restroom before she left.

The three hundred dollars wasn't much, but she had to do something for them. It found its way into a drawer in the bathroom, hopefully unnoticed by any electronic surveillance. She returned home to her apartment, which seemed more like an empty shell than before.

The next morning, after she cleared security, the stone-faced Agent Wade approached her. "Agent Reyes, the Assistant Director would like to see you now. Please come with me."

Seated once again in front of the nameless man, Monica's nerves were on edge. Everything was wrong, her senses were telling her. She wanted to run. Something was very, very wrong with the situation. Her pulse sped up and she looked hard at the man before her.

"Agent Reyes, we have information that you have seen your former partner, John Doggett, the last two evenings. There is also a troubling report that you spent the night at his home recently, before he had been dismissed. This does go against the FBI's fraternization policy."

"If you're implying that I am having some sort of relationship with John Doggett, then you are incorrect in your assumption. John and I have been friends longer than he's been an agent and longer than we've been partners. But we have never been in a relationship or done anything against the fraternization policy. I was simply too tired to drive home that night and John allowed me to stay in his home that night."

"This will of course have to be investigated. Such a serious charge could put your career in jeopardy."

She studied him hard, but found him largely unreadable, which worried her. "What do you want from me, exactly?"

He sighed, smiled, and leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. "Interesting that you should bring that up, Agent Reyes. There is a matter I'd like to discuss with you. Something you can do to help us. We believe that your former partner is planning to flee the area with Gibson Praise, the boy you mistakenly believe is being sought after by those who wish to do him harm."

"That is not a mistaken belief at all. It was a missed assassination attempt on Gibson that brought him to Agent Mulder's attention in the first place. Shortly thereafter, an FBI agent who was assigned to protect him was shot and he was kidnapped. During this time he was forcibly and unnecessarily operated. Agent Mulder was able to free him and helped to place him in protective custody, yet he was found and nearly abducted again. Your claims that his life isn't at risk are baseless."

"We understand that you fear for the boy's life, and we acknowledge that when he was younger, certain groups did try to do him harm. But there is no evidence at the present time that this is still the case. However, we understand your fears and we are willing to enter him into another placement.

"If you could just help us, Agent Reyes, in convincing Mr. Doggett to release the boy to the FBI rather than running off and doing something foolish, we would be most appreciative and would be willing to overlook the breach of the fraternization policy. The late night transaction that you conducted at an ATM near your home could then be explained necessary, and not seen as a sign that you are aware of John Doggett's plans. And, say, if your fingerprints were found on the chain link fence outside the facility from which Fox Mulder escaped, we might be willing to turn a blind eye to that as well."

So that was their game. They had hard evidence that she had been there and assisted with Mulder's escape. And they had indeed been tracking her bank account. She sat back in her chair and thought. It did not take her long to reach her decision, but she sat there for a while just because she could.

"I will talk to John, if you like. I offered John the money to help cover Gibson's expenses during his stay at John's house." She paused her and channeled the acting class she'd taken on a whim in her undergrad days, dropping her head apologetically. "And I will admit to having feelings for John, feelings that I believe he shares with me. I was unaware of his intended departure and I can guarantee you that I do not want him to leave." She swallowed hard. "I am willing to trade the boy for John's freedom."


	3. Chapter 3

The unnamed man smiled approvingly.

"I don't want to lose John, and I don't want him to kidnap Gibson, if what you believe he is planning is true. He hasn't told me anything about it, but I … I think he is the type of person who would do something rash and impulsive like this. I think it is possible that he might see himself as the only person who can save Gibson." She swallowed and closed her eyes. She needed to be believable now. If he doubted her for one second, it would be all over. "What do I need to do?"

The man pushed his phone towards her. "Call him. Right now, in front of me, and tell him that what he is doing is wrong."

"He won't answer. He believes his phone is tapped. I could … go to his house. Maybe if he saw me in person … I could play to his emotions …" She allowed herself to get little choked up. "I don't know if he would be willing to trade Gibson for me, but I think he could be convinced to stay." She threw in a measure of uncertainty. "I don't feel right about playing with his emotions like this though. I don't want to betray him."

The man nodded. "You need to think of yourself as helping him. His future is currently up in the air. Making the wrong decision could easily bring it all down on him. Giving us Gibson Praise will go a long way in clearing his name. He could devote his future to … more important matters."

"Do you really believe he will leave?" A curt nod. "Soon?" Another nod. "Should I go to him now?"

"We would like to get this matter cleared up as soon as possible. If you would be willing to return with the young man in question, that would also be greatly appreciated."

"I can't promise John will listen to me."

"You need to make him listen to you. And if you need assistance, you must call this office immediately. We trust you, Agent Reyes, and we trust that you understand the gravity of the situation and everything that is at stake."

"I do."

Chapter Four: Escape

She was grateful that she had brought her bag with her that morning. Her place wasn't here after all, she realized now. The problem, however, was that she knew her place was with John, but she had no idea where he was now. His house was empty. She used her spare key to get in and searched quickly for any clues or evidence as to where they had gone. John had left it in a state that suggested a quick return. Bananas on the counter, breakfast dishes sitting rinsed off in the sink. A reminder post-it note stuck on the fridge with a list of chores for the weekend, with a long shopping list full of items that looked like they'd been chosen by a 14-year-old boy – Poptarts (John's, she knew), soda, potato chips, and chocolate milk.

A tour through the bedrooms yielded nothing. Gibson's bed hadn't been made, John's was immaculate. His clothes still hung in his closet. His suitcases were in the hall closet. Nothing looked out of place and she even half-expected them to return any second now. But she knew they were gone. There was no doubt in her mind.

_Where are you, John? _she thought. _How do I find you?_ She sat down on the couch and realized it hadn't even been two weeks since she'd been here with John trying to figure out a way to save Mulder when Gibson magically arrived at his doorstep. She waited.

After fifteen minutes, she pulled out her phone and called the unnamed man. "They're not here, but it looks like they just stepped out. All of John's things are here. I think that he just took Gibson to buy some clothes. He mentioned that yesterday, that Gibson didn't have anything to wear. I should have realized what he was planning. I'll stay until they return."

She did not mean that, of course. She was well aware that John was not coming back. This was it. She closed her eyes and cleared her mind. John was somewhere out there and she had faith that fate would bring them together. She called out to Gibson, unsure if his powers extended that far. No matter how hard she listened, though, she could not hear a response. It did not deter her.

Back in her car, she drove to a bank branch and withdrew the maximum they would allow her. And then she really started to run. It would only be a matter of minutes before they were able to descend on her. Traffic at the middle of the day was thankfully light and she was able to hop onto the freeway easily. She felt like heading north, going up 95 for a ways, but the sight of a police car in her rearview mirror caused her to miss her exit. She realized it might not be the safest way to travel and so she got off as soon as she could and made her way through the neighborhoods of south Maryland for a few hours.

As she pumped gas at a corner store, her skin suddenly exploded into goose bumps and a chill went up her spine. Her tank was only half full, and there was still twelve dollars to go to warrant the money she'd handed over to the clerk, but she felt nervous. A dark car drove past, but she only saw it out of the corner of her eye. And then she heard her name being called out by the most welcomed voice in the world. It was John.

He grinned a half-grin as he looked at her. "You coming?" She was too overjoyed to speak at first and could only nod her head a little too enthusiastically. "Ok, follow me and we'll ditch your car on a residential street in about a mile or so. We need to go now though."

She wanted to shout out prayers of thanksgiving, build a shrine to whatever god had made this possible, or do something dramatic. It was a miracle she could barely believe had occurred.

Chapter Five: The Big Apple

Her excitement had finally whittled down to a manageable level by the time she hopped into the car with John and Gibson. "How did you find me?" she wanted to know.

"You've been screaming for help for hours," said Gibson.

"You could hear me?"

"In a way." He didn't elaborate.

She wanted to hug him, but he had been moved to the backseat and was inaccessible. He gave her a look that felt like a warning to never attempt such a gesture. She smiled at him and he knew he wasn't off the hook, no matter how uncomfortable it made him.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Tonight was my first write-in, not counting kick-off. Today's offering is particularly crappy thanks to all the word wars we did to get our word counts up. If anyone were reading, I'd tell them to beware!

* * *

John had already managed to procure a different vehicle. They zipped along the freeway feeling relatively secure. Monica watched the roadside flash before her eyes and tried to take it all in. She flitted between joy and a crushing sensation of dread in her heart.

He had a plan, of course, which he explained as such: They would drive up to NYC where he had worked as a cop and later a detective. Five years spent tracking down fugitives had given him a thorough knowledge of the criminal underpinnings of the city. He knew who to contact to get fake passports and other documents. Then they would head on up to Canada and hopefully get on a plane and get off the continent.

"Do you think I did the right thing?" she asked after explaining what had happened to her over the last two days. She felt she'd done so, but she wanted to make sure that he did too.

"Honestly, Mon, I can't say for sure. But they were definitely pigeon-holing you and they could have chosen to take legal actions against you. They could have locked you up and thrown away the key as some kind of petty revenge against Mulder and Scully and me. And there's a good chance none of us would have known. Anyway, they've got what they want, probably. They've destroyed the x-files, they driven off Mulder and Scully, and they're probably sure that we don't know where they are or they would have been on our case about them too. No, all we've got that they want is the boy and I'm not sure how much they want him, or if they just want him to disappear again and stay out of their way."

She looked back at Gibson again who was staring out the window ignoring her. Had she been able to see inside his head, she would have been shocked to see the workings of a plan to escape once they hit the city. He had taken bits and pieces of John's plan and was quickly creating his own. Somehow he had to give them the slip, but preferably after they had managed to get him fake papers. And he could take some of the money they had brought as well.

And if she could have looked into John's mind, a mind she actually knew well enough to read fairly accurately when she chose, she would have seen that his cool demeanor belied the unease inside at her unexpected presence. He was elated to have her there on the one hand, but he worried what it would mean, and where they were headed, in the metaphorical sense. Would he be able to keep his feelings for her in check? No sooner had that thought and the ever present daydreams of kissing her rushed at him than he remembered the boy, whom he knew could read minds, even though he didn't understand how in the world something like that was possible. He looked back at him guiltily in the rearview mirror and the boy's eyes met him. _Dammit_, he thought, _This won't do at all_. He wasn't sure how he could possibly be around Monica and not think those thoughts.

"Mulder's mind is much dirtier than yours," said the boy and John could only respond by sighing and giving the road more of his attention. He could see Monica out of the corner of his eye turn around and look at the boy, no doubt giving him some sort of look. He didn't want to know more.

He timed the drive to put them in the outskirts of New York City after dark. They crawled into a generic motel around 11 and he wearily went in to inquire about a room. He went ahead and paid so that they could leave first thing in the morning, telling the clerk that they were on their way to Ohio to visit family. That should help throw off the FBI just in case they managed to track them here.

One room, two beds. He was exhausted and knew he needed sleep to keep going, but this was too troublesome. Luckily for him, Monica was well attuned to him and his needs and could see he needed rest. She volunteered to stay up through the night while he and Gibson slept. He wanted to kiss her again, he was so happy, but instead he crawled under the thin covers and was asleep in minutes.

He woke promptly at 5 and took over, even though she insisted he get more sleep, but by then his mind was racing as he tried to go over everything that they would need to do. He roused her and Gibson at 8 and they groggily all made their way into the city.

He was sweating bullets by this point. He assigned Monica the task of never taking her eyes off of Gibson while he kept his own eyes peeled for cops, not for fear of being arrested, but for fear of being recognized. Heading into the criminal underbelly of the city, asking for help and possibly protection, knowing full well that he had a history with them that would not easily be forgotten, this did nothing but add to his anxiety. But he never let the focused look slip from his eyes and he would never let anyone see his fear. This was perhaps the riskiest part of his plan and he wasn't sure how it would play out, if at all. And dragging Monica into it as well … no, he couldn't allow himself to think of that.

They came to a grungy black door in a deserted alley. He buzzed and the heavy door creaked open slowly, revealing the face and body of a man no one wanted to mess with. "I'm hear to see Ricky Soreno," he said calmly.

"Yeah?"

"I need a favor. I've got cash."

"Why do you think Ricky would want to see you?"

"Because Ricky and I used to do business," he responded in an accent that was growing thicker by the syllable.

They were lead up a staircase and told to wait outside another ominous door. John kept looking at Gibson, asking in in his if everything was ok, but the boy didn't seem to acknowledge him, which he hoped meant that thy were fine. Monica hovered near him and he almost could feel the warmth rising from her body, but he tried to concentrate on the mission at hand. Would Ricky accept him? Would Ricky help him?

After an excruciating 30 minutes, they were lead into another room. "Ricky wants to know who you are what you think you're doing here giving out his name and claiming you know him."

"Tell Ricky that my name is John Doggett and he would have known me some eight years ago when I was doing some work with the police department. Tell him I'm not a cop any more and tell him I need his help to get the hell out of this country."

The bouncer nodded and went inside what was the final door. This time he was quick to open it and tip his head inviting them in.

Ricky sat at a desk, clad in a linen suit for the summer, with two lackeys standing at his side, a formation they had obviously taken for show. "John Motherfuckin Doggett. Never thought I'd lay eyes on you again. What the hll brings you to my establishment?"

Monica looked at him with undisguised bemusement and he gave her a sharp look. Such merriment would not stand well here.

"Glad you remember me, Ricky. You helped me out a lot back in the day, and it'd be nice if you could help me out again. This time though, it ain't to turn in your buddies. This is all about helping me. If you feel up to it. And if the price is right. I need a favor. A big one."

Ricky looked him up and down. "You got yourself in some trouble?" His body language was making John nervous, but he held his ground.

"I just need to get out of the country. I know you are a master at fake passports and licenses and such. If I've got the money, you think you could help me out?"

"I dunno, Doggett. I turned a lot of my buddies in to help you and it didn't do me much good."

John reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash that made Monica's heart lurch.

Ricky leaned forward. "We might could talk business. How much you got?"

"How much do you charge these days, Ricky?"

Ricky laughed. "Time's is good. I might could talk business with you." He sized up the party before him. "Three thousand per passport. Thousand for driver's licenses. What other services do you need? We can get you a new car, set you up with some plastic surgery. Whatever you need to go under."

John counted through his stack of cash and pulled out several hundred dollar bills. He started to walk towards the desk when Gibson laid a hand on his arm. He looked down at him quizzically.

"I can help him," said Gibson. He looked up at John. "He doesn't mean what he says. He wants revenge. He's going to turn you in. But I can help him, and he'll change his mind."

Ricky was staring hard at the boy.

"Send them away," said Gibson, referring to the two men who stood beside Ricky and to the bouncer who stood at the door. Ricky wasn't persuaded. "You don't have to, but what I have to say you probably don't want them to hear."

"What do you think you can tell me, boy?"

"I can read minds." Ricky and men stood looking unimpressed. Gibson sighed. "Think of a number." He gave them time. "Twelve. One thousand seventy-two. Eighteen."

One man gulped visibly. Ricky smiled and leaned forward again. "We might could do business. Boys, pat these lovely visitors down and then clear the room."

They were alone. Ricky motioned for Gibson to take a seat, which he did, making himself look much smaller than normal. "What can you tell me that might interest me?"

"Ralph… Ralphi… he screwed your wife. Gabriella. He's terrified you will find out. He knows he screwed up. But he's still trying to justify it. He only did it once, and he totally got her drunk – he feels like he used her. But he liked it."

"And Marco? What about that bastard?"

"You can trust him. He admires you. He wants to be like you. He's worried about leaving you in here with us and he's right outside listening for trouble. He hates Ralphie. Doesn't trust him at all. Feels demeaned standing there as his equal.

"But you want to know more than that. You want me to prove to you more that I can read you mind. You had your uncle Mike killed in '97. You really do admire John. You were a boy scout for a year but you never told anyone. You grew up in a home with a mother, a father, two aunts, and four brothers. You are the oldest and they all look to you. You inherited the business from your father. You own three cars, but the Mazarati is your favorite, but your wife hates it and always wants you to take the lotus. You really wish you'd been given the keys to another family business, one where there is less danger of dying, but you have found your way in this one and enjoy it. You stole a car when you were twelve. You…"

"That's enough. I believe you. You do some work for me, kid, and I'll set you and your friends up real nice. And you know I mean it."

"I know. We only have a few hours though. You need to call your people in now. And provide a safe place for my friends to stay while we do this."

"What's going on, Gibson?" asked Monica, with concern.

"I'm going to help him."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Yes. Don't you want me to help us escape? I know things that he needs to know, and he will help us in return. For free," said Gibson, resolutely. Ricky nodded with amusement.

"You're a sly kid, I gotta say. You'd do fine in this business. Look me up if you ever want a job."

They were shuttled across the hall to a lounge type area and within the hour Gibson was called out to "interview" about fifteen people who were close to Ricky. By the end of the afternoon, Ricky was offering him cash. It wasn't a bad deal at all. He didn't tell John and Monica that he had come out on top. The money would help him get home, or wherever he meant to go. In the meantime, they would be helped. Ricky promised them passports by the morning, good ones, the kind that no one would suspect or look at twice. The kind that would get them across any border, anywhere in the world.

In the meantime, they would need another place to crash for the night. Ricky offered them a room at his own home, which they quickly passed up, even though Gibson assured them Ricky could be trusted.

"Just don't want to get him mixed up in our problems. I'm sure he means well."

They settled instead for a seedy hotel that charged way too much a night. Two beds as before, but half the space, as it is in New York City. Gibson was wiped out after a full day of scouring people's minds.


	5. Chapter 5

He turned on the TV and settled into bed, largely ignoring John and Monica, but fell asleep within minutes. Monica turned down the volume and saw to it that his covers were pulled up, and even took a moment to stroke his head.

"What are we going to do about him? He seems unhappy. Sullen."

"He's fourteen. I think that comes with the territory."

"Perhaps. We should do something for him. I'm not sure that anyone has ever done anything for him besides shuffle him around from one place to another."

"Well, that's what needs to be done. When we're safe, we can start thinking about other less important things."

She looked back at the sleeping form beneath the covers and thought he looked more like a boy than a young man. "What are we going to do with him?" she asked rhetorically. John could see her heart breaking for him.

"It'll be good for him. We'll find a nice safe place and settle down for a while."

"Where are we going? Do you have any place in particular in mind?"

"Canada would be the easiest. No new language to learn. We wouldn't stick out. But the further we run and the harder it is for them to get to us, the better. Maybe a country that is less technologically advanced… easier for them to find us in a world full of cameras and electronic data."

She sat on the bed in front of him. "What about Mexico?"

"I think we'd stick out more than a little there. And I got bad memories of that place."

"Well, there are enough places that are under the radar and the police and government officials are easily bought off. We could pass for an American family on vacation. I could be your language teacher. We could make it work. And if we can do something to trick them into thinking we've crossed the border, maybe let them get a good visual of us nearby, or stop somewhere and ask questions about Ontario and buy a Canadian road atlas…"

He nodded as he took it in. "That could work. But then we just book it down to Mexico and hope that we don't get caught? That's a risky plan, Monica."

"I feel like that might be why I am here. Is there another country you know as well as I know my own?"

"Lemme think about it tonight. We can decide for sure in the morning. For now though, you should get some sleep."

"John, there's something else that I wanted to ask."

He felt his insides somersault around. He did not want to get into this subject.

She took note of his sad, weary eyes and countenance, and asked as gently as she could. "What about us?"

He sighed. "Look, right now we've got to worry about Gibson. We can't let anything get in the way of that. We're still partners, you know. No matter what the FBI says. We're a good team, don't ya think?"

_Still not ready_, she thought. It was ok. "You're right. We are and we need to concentrate on Gibson."

"I don't mean this to sound cruel, but if something were to happen to both of you, you realize I have to protect him."

"And vice versa. We're tough, John. We can take care of ourselves. I understand that."

"Good. I don't want you to ever think that I don't care."

"I know," she said, quietly. She got up and had started walking towards the bathroom when he took her arm to stop her.

He felt panicked and unsure of what to say. The words he wanted to say wouldn't come out and he didn't think that they should. Her eyes looked at him with a questioning expression. "I just… I want you to know…" He dropped hold of her, suddenly painfully aware of the physical contact.

She saw him falter and felt pity. A hug, she could force a hug on him, and maybe it would do some good. So she wrapped her arms around him tightly, hands splayed against his back, pulling him into her, and she held on for a long time, until he became antsy.

The tears filling his eyes surprised her. "I just want you to know that I'm glad you're here," he said before turning away back to his chair.

As she showered in the tiny four foot square stall, she thought of John and Gibson and she thought more on her own purpose, her reason for being there. Mexico made sense to her, and part of her felt like it was time to go home. As for John, she knew they were fated to be together and this was obviously the impetus they needed. She laughed to herself – it apparently took breaking the law and fleeing the country to bring them together. Once upon a time, she'd thought they would simply date, get married, buy a nice house, and have a child or two. Instead, here she was, a fugitive with a man who wasn't ready to love her yet, and a boy who distrusted them both. It will do, she decided.

Gibson concerned her more and more with each passing hour. He barely spoke, had yet to smile, and didn't seem to have any interests outside of TV. He seemed remarkably cool-headed for a boy whose life had been constantly in danger for the last eight years. She would ask him about his parents tomorrow, though he probably wouldn't want to talk about that either. And maybe she could do something nice for him… perhaps he would like a handheld video game or something to entertain him during the countless hours they would probably be spending traveling from one safe spot to another.

There was no way to surprise him, she thought, until she realized that he was asleep. If she left him a note with her intentions and if he were to wake up before her, then it would be as close to a surprise as possible. She came out beaming.

"What are you so chipper about?" asked a bemused John. She explained her plan to him. "You really care about that boy, huh?"

"I want to help him. I'm not sure how best to do that."

"Maybe that's why you're here with us. Think about it – he's been out in the desert with only Mulder watching over him. At the age of eight he was taken from his parents and for some reason never returned. I'm not entirely convinced that they are alive. Or that they were ever real. Maybe he needs a mom right now. And I … I think you'd make a great mom."

There wasn't much she could say about that, so instead she scrawled out her note and left it beside Gibson's bed, then crawled under her own covers while John stayed up to keep watch.

The next morning found Gibson looking forward to a Gameboy and thinking that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to stay with them for a while. He was actually a little ambivalent about staying in their presence less for his own lack of freedom and more for the fact that their lives would be in great danger. But there was no denying that both would die to protect him, and that wasn't such a bad thing. Monica had already hugged him against his wishes before they left and it just made him realize that no one had hugged him in years, really.

"You still can't protect me, though," he warned them. "But I guess we can all try."

When they returned to Soreno's late the next morning, they were shown their passports – one Canadian, two American, along with birth certificates, driver's licenses, and fake papers for a "highly reliable" Ford Escort, which they would use in trade with their current car. Everything listed them as a family.

"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you fake husband and wife. Congratulations," said Ricky. Marco walked towards them and presented them with two simple bands of gold. "They ain't real at all, not quite worth it, but they look real enough. You just gotta look the part. Dunno what to do about you, kid, 'cause you ain't exactly the spitting image of your new parents here, but I imagine you'll survive out there."

Monica wanted terribly to slip the ring onto John's finger herself, and have him do the same for her, but she figured correctly that he would never engage in such an act under these circumstances.

"How much do we owe you, Ricky?"

"That boy did more than his share of work yesterday." Gibson moved closer to Monica, who instinctively put her hands on his shoulders. "I cleaned house yesterday pretty thoroughly. He more than paid for the work." Gibson shook his head.

"John," said Monica in a cautious voice. He took the queue, but there wasn't enough time.

"I can't really let an asset like that just walk out my door."

"I don't want to stay here," said Gibson. "I want to go with them. I want to leave."

Ricky stood up. Marco moved toward them again. The large brick of a man stood solidly by the door.

"How much money will it take to buy our way out of this?" asked John, holding his ground. "I know you're a man who understands the value of money."

"I'm also a man who understands that that boy's skills are priceless."

"You can't make me help you."

Ricky laughed. "We have ways of making you help us. If a gun pointed at your head isn't enough, we've got other methods that are slower and more painful that might convince you."

"Ricky," said John again, his eyes having never left the thug's face, "I trusted you. I'm trying to protect the boy from those who wouldn't think twice about killing you to get to him."

He sat back down in his leather seat. "You would have some powerful enemies, kid?"

Gibson nodded. "Bad ones. Really bad."

"You think these two can protect you?"


	6. Chapter 6

"I think they would try and you would just sell me to the highest bidder."

"Haha! Can't fool a kid who can read minds."

"Ricky," said John, moving a step forward and causing Marco and the brute to tighten their hold on their guns, and Monica to clasp Gibson's shoulder extra hard. "You gotta let us go now. We had a deal. You got us the stuff we needed. You could have taken cash, and it ain't too late either, but you chose to use the boy. That was a one time only thing. You used him, and you learned a lot of stuff you couldn't have found out without him. You're already ahead of the game."

At Ricky's signal, the brute began to move towards John, his sub-machine gun pointing right at John's back. When it made contact, John's hands automatically rose. Gibson looked up at Monica and threw his eyes briefly at Marco, who held a smaller pistol in his hand. She felt like she could hear him screaming in his head to deal with that. He already knew John was going to attack the brute and that the brute wasn't prepared for that, thinking only that John would go after Ricky and he could gun him down two steps into that. Marco had a gun trained on Monica, but was more concerned with John. He did not consider her a threat, which was foolish of him.

Now, though, it was time for Gibson to do something. He pulled out of Monica's grasp and walked up to Ricky's desk. Soreno sat down satisfied. "Good decision, kid."

"I'm not going to work for you." Ricky started laughing again until Gibson picked up a pen and held it near Soreno's face. John felt the gun move away from his back and instinctively maneuvered himself to get hold of the gun and ram the butt of it into the brute's nose as hard as he could before flipping it around and shooting a round into the man's kneecap. At the same time as the commotion began, Monica wasted no time in disarming Marco, grabbing his gun and twisting his arm around until he was on the floor and his gun was now pinned to his temple.

"I think it will be ok if we leave now," said Gibson. "We're going to need to keep the guns," he added, stealing the plan of action currently swirling in John's head. He took out the wad of cash he'd earned the day before and slapped down two grand.

More of Soreno's men came running in but John immediately trained his gun on them and Ricky nodded for them to back down.

"Are we all good, Ricky?" asked John. Ricky nodded in response. "We won't need to come back and discuss this further?" Ricky shook his head.

"Good. You may want to get your buddy here some help. Been nice working with ya." John tipped his head in goodbye and the three of them were out of the building and trying their best to lose their way in the crowd before grabbing a taxi.

"That was damn fine work back there, Gibson," said John, euphoric from the event, grinning with approval at the boy's vagary.

Monica took the pen out of his hand. "You're ok, though? That was pretty scary."

His eyes were sad when he looked up at her. "I've seen worse. Much worse."

All she could do was put her arm around him and pull his reluctant frame into her own. John patted the boy's head, more following Monica's lead than out of his own need to be kind to the boy. He let his hand fall onto Monica's arm and they stayed that way until they reached their car.

Back in their own car, they decided to follow Monica's plan of heading up near the border and then changing course and heading to Mexico. John wasn't convinced that they should stay, but it seemed like it might be easier to slip onto an international flight from there. They headed up 87, as though they were on their way to Montreal. In Plattsburgh, Monica made John stop the car at a Walmart and ran inside to buy the promised Gameboy, a few games chosen by Gibson, and a lot of batteries. She made sure to look directly at the security cameras and purchased a Canadian road atlas. Within half an hour, they were in the sleepy village of Champlain, the last stop before the border. John chatted with the clerk at the gas station, asking about routes in to Canada and how much time did it normally take to cross the border and if there were smaller border crossings they could try. They stopped at a McDonald's for dinner and all three of them went into the restaurant, mainly to get it on to film that they were all less than three miles from Canada.

Then they changed direction. They headed southeast until they hit 81. Gibson had been more than entertained by his new toy, playing until his head finally began to droop. They would drive all through the night, with John and Monica taking turns at the wheel and doing their best to sleep in the passenger seat, or trading with Gibson for the backseat. It would be a grueling trip.

As soon as Gibson began to lightly snore in the backseat, Monica slipped her hand into John's and smiled. He felt his heart seize up again, as it usually did, but he managed to squeeze it back. "Are you tired yet? I can drive when you're ready."

"Soon. I'll feel better when we're out of New York." He pulled his hand out of hers and put it back on the steering wheel, pretending he needed his other hand to scratch his left ear. She didn't fight it, but instead sat silently by his side.

She spent the night driving through Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. Gibson gave up on sleeping when the sun began to light the sky and they all decided that breakfast was in order, despite the risks involved. Just outside of St. Louis, in the tiny town of Beaufort, Missouri, they found a poor hole in the wall restaurant that didn't look like it even had a computer in the backroom, much less any type of security camera.

They didn't say much, for fear of anyone nearby overhearing anything that might set off alarms, but their minds were far from quiet. Gibson was aware that they were both thinking of each other, as they always were, and that they were thinking very different things about Mexico.


	7. Chapter 7

He didn't feel such an overwhelming desire to escape. Mulder was long gone. The interaction with Ricky Soreno, from the intense sessions of reading the minds of his people and a few enemies, knowing that he was sending many of them off to their deaths, to the incident with the pen that ended in John shooting out the kneecaps of one of the men, it made him feel very unsafe, very much like the 14-year-old boy that he truly was, even when he didn't get to feel that. John and Monica were obviously more than capable of protecting him, even though he knew in the end, they would not be able to help, and if the alien bounty hunter came after him, or a supersoldier, they would be helpless. And the images of Mexico playing in Monica's head made him a little more than curious to see it.

Monica was indeed thinking to Mexico. She hadn't been home in over a year, and really since going off to college, she hadn't returned to her country other than to fly into Mexico City and be driven straight to her parent's home. She seemed excited and nostalgic. He worried about her when she had to face the facts about being in hiding. It wasn't going to be all tequila and the beach.

"We just need to think of it as a long, extended vacation," she said, as though she knew he were probing those thoughts.

He shook his head but didn't say anything in response.

John knew how rough it would be. He knew how hard it would be for them to live below the radar, to get by on next to nothing, to living in dingy apartments, not being able to get a real job. He was trying hard to see how it could possibly be a vacation, but he didn't contradict her. Gibson could tell that he needed her and her positive nature. And then he got a series of scenes about other reasons John wanted her around.

He didn't stare – it wasn't like this was the first time someone had thought such dirty things in his presence, but John knew and suddenly decided to visit the men's room.

"What was that all about?" asked Monica.

"Oh, he's just thinking about you and it embarrasses him when he does that in front of me."

She looked towards the bathroom and he could hear her begging to know just what was going on in John's head.

"People are weird. You all sit there in your own heads, thinking your own thoughts, and even when you know that the other person is thinking them, you get scared and decide that you're completely wrong. John likes you, you like John, and you're both waiting for the other person to do something about it."

Her head popped with repetitions of _John likes me?_ and _John likes me_. "He's not ready though. I know. I've known him for a long time and I've watched him slowly come to terms with the concept of us, but he's not yet ready to do anything about."

Gibson sighed and played with the wrapper of his straw. "You wanted to know. I'm just telling you. He likes you. He thinks about you all the time. Sometime he thinks things about you I don't want to know, but you think the same kind of things too. He just doesn't believe that you like him too, even though he knows you do."

John emerged from the men's room where he'd done nothing more than splash frigid water on his face and try to think about the logistics of their escape. He thought of NASCAR and the world series, the war, his father, how to repair the transmission on his old '83 Chevy. But the harder he tried not to think of her, the harder it was not to. And seeing the two of them, heads bent together in discussion, didn't help either. He worried that the boy was sneaking into his head and sharing all of his secret thoughts with Monica, which of course he was.

"What are you two talking about?" he asked as he took his seat. Monica looked like she'd won the lottery, beaming her most beaming smile, so he had to look away to the boy who never seemed to smile. Neither one divulged the contents of their conversation.

Before they left, Monica took advantage of the bathroom and the luxury of five whole minutes to get herself put together for the day. She was only partially thinking of what Gibson would say to John, her head begging him sometimes to tell John, sometimes telling him not to get involved, and sometimes just not believing what she'd been told.

John and Gibson sat silently in front of one another. "Maybe," said Gibson, "if you two would just admit you like each other, it would be more bearable for me to be around you both."

"What are you talking about?" asked John, knowing full well what he was talking about. Gibson looked at him unconvinced.

"Why don't you just kiss her or something?"

"Because she's my friend and I am not going down that road, especially not while I'm trying to keep you safe."

"But you don't want her to be your friend. You want her to be your girlfriend."

John sat in stony silence, praying for Monica to return soon.

"It's ok, you know. She wants to be your girlfriend too."

Gibson turned around and looked out the window. Grownups were really weird.

They continued on their drive. Gibson was grateful for the headphones that came with the Gameboy, for it made it slightly easier to concentrate on his game instead of the explosion of thoughts he'd helped to create in their heads.

Monica wanted to talk. And she wanted to talk in privacy, if they could manage it later when Gibson was asleep. But he seemed to be up for the day and she herself was starting to feel the kind of tired you feel when the world starts spinning. Her whole heart and soul wanted to be with John, to hold his hand, to talk to him about what he felt, to finally be with him in some sort of mutually desired relationship. But instead, her body needed to shut down, so she traded spots with Gibson and curled up in the backseat, slipping into unconsciousness within minutes.

So Gibson moved to the front, deciding that he would spend the next several hours (until Monica woke up and changed with John) trying to defeat the next level of his game. He had only started to play when he felt John want to talk to him, but struggling to come up with a subject or something appropriate. He didn't know how to relate to him and his thoughts kept coming back to his own son, who would be a little older than he was now.

"I'm not like him, your son."

"I realize that. Besides, I don't know what he would have been like as a teenager."

"Well, I can't take his place. And I don't want to." His video game character was attacked and died, and he put the game down. Playing wasn't going to work well if John didn't leave him alone. "I don't need a surrogate father either."

"You had Mulder, though."

Gibson shrugged, though John didn't see. "I guess."

"He took good care of you, though, right?"

"I guess."

"You miss him."

"Sometimes."

"And your real father?"

"He's dead. I didn't really know him anyway. He was a business man in the Philippines. I figured out how to do the chess thing when I was five and I started going off to tournaments with my mom for a while and then even she just left me to my manager. So I was never home and never saw him, really. And then he was dead. My mom too."

"I'm real sorry. I figured they were gone…" He stopped talking. Of course Gibson knew that he suspected his parents were dead. He probably also knew that John assumed they were killed. He knew everything John knew and it made him tired to try to comprehend.

"People worry too much about their thoughts. You can't think anything that could offend me. Your thoughts aren't any different than anyone else's. Except that you know I can hear them and so you feel guilty about everything all the time."

He knew John wanted to know about their deaths, but he didn't want to talk about it. He hated death. Death had come into his life all too often, killing his friends, his family, his protectors. He was tired of it. And his parents' deaths weighed too heavily on him, so he always did his best to avoid the subject and never think on it.

"I want to play my game again," he said and promptly went about ignoring John again, and doing his best to avoid reading his mind.

They had just crossed into the panhandle of Texas when John knew he couldn't go on any further. They all needed to eat something more substantial than crap from the gas station, so he pulled into a barbeque joint and looked back at Monica who seemed to be sleeping quite soundly. He felt a pang in his heart at the sight of her and once again wanted more than anything to kiss her, or at least touch her. She looked so beautiful to him then, as beautiful in sleep as she was when she laughed or was standing in a dingy warehouse office holding a gun on a thug. Her eyelids fluttered open and she smiled when she saw him.

"Hey," he said gently.

"Are we stopping?"

"Yeah. Thought we could grab some dinner and then you could drive through the night."

"What time is it?"

"Nearly 8."

"You let me sleep that long? John, you can't drive yourself to exhaustion. You don't have to. I'm here to help you."

They ordered pulled pork sandwiches and ate them at the next rest stop they came across, sitting at a picnic table in the dusk. He could tell by the way that she looked at him that she truly was smitten. She, for one, did not normally let that look sit on her face, but she was still practically giddy at what Gibson had told her.

As they walked back to the car, she took his hand and flashed a smile at him, making him feel dizzier than the sleep deprivation already made him. _God, I love this woman_, he thought, before quickly adding, _And don't you go telling her that, boy_. Gibson looked at him and rolled his eyes, which only made Monica look at him with a furrowed brow as she wondered what had just gone on between them..

John did his best to settle into the backseat and Gibson stayed up front with Monica. He was finally starting to really like her. "You say what you think," he told her. "I like that. Most people aren't so honest."

"Thanks, Gibson. I try to be honest. I feel like it's a good trait. I should be more honest with him though."

"Yeah. Well, you'll talk to him while I'm sleeping. I'm sure you'll tell him all that stuff you keep from him."

"We'll see."

"You should tell him about wanting to go to Mexico City and see your parents. He's not going to like that, though."

"Why do you say that?"

"He's got it all mapped out in his head and he's already decided that avoiding your friends and family is the safest course. There is always a weak link somewhere in your friends and relatives. Also, he's only agreeing to Mexico because he likes you. He'd rather go overseas."

"John would never be so foolish in making a decision so as to put his feelings ahead of his mission. Trust me on that. I'm starting to think you're not being honest with me." She wondered if he had made up the stuff he'd said about John liking her.

Gibson just shrugged and turned on his Gameboy again. They didn't talk anymore and eventually he fell asleep, propped up against the door.

She stopped an hour south of Albuquerque to stretch her legs and use the restroom. Gibson crawled wearily into the back and fell asleep again quickly.

"John," she said as they started down the road again. "I want to see my parents."

"I don't think that's wise, Monica."

"Maybe not, but I need to see them. What if this is my last chance to say goodbye? We're putting our lives on the line for Gibson and I'm surprisingly ok with not getting to say goodbye to any of my friends or other family. But, I don't know, I just have this… feeling. Like we might be on the run for a very, very long time. I haven't even talked to my mother in a month. She may not even know yet what has happened."

"Well, it's good that you haven't contacted them in a while. The first thing they did was go through our phone records. Have you made any calls to Mexico lately?"

"No. The last two weeks, in fact, the only people I called were you, Scully, and Skinner. If they look at that, they may suspect I'm just hiding in the Hoover Building, as I looked like I was just married to my job."

"They will have contacted your parents by now, but probably just to explain the seriousness of the situation and that they need to turn you in if you show up on their doorstep. I've made plenty of those calls in my day, but I can say that most parents do not turn their children in, and if they do, it's only after helping them to get what they need to stay on the run longer. They'd get them a car and as much money as they could spare, send them on their way and call us an hour or two later. It's hard for parents to turn in their children even under penalty of law."

"My mother would never turn me in, not even under penalty of death. There is a sense of honor among Mexicans that Americans lack."

John sighed. "Mon, I do not doubt your convictions, but I have to say I don't think it's wise. I understand where you're coming from though. But maybe after things have calmed down, maybe in a year or so, we could do that. Now, though, we need to concentrate on getting into Mexico and slipping out of sight."

"I still want to see her," she said with a tone that said the discussion was over, despite having no winner. "I want her to meet you too," she added.

"To meet me?" he asked, perplexed.

"I've… she knows a great deal about you and I've always wanted her to get to know you, but it's never worked out before. One of you is always in the wrong place at the wrong time."

He didn't feel like responding mainly because it embarrassed him that she talked to his mother about him. It stayed quiet in the car for a long time before she spoke again.

"John?" she said, hesitating. "I just… I just wanted you to know that… I do like you."

He couldn't speak, as his heart was somewhere up in his throat. His silence scared her.

"Gibson said you felt the same. I thought maybe we should clear the air. Maybe it would make things easier on this trip. So neither one of us has to pretend that there's nothing between us. Because there is something between us. And I know you know it. And I feel like you've know that since I moved to DC."

"Maybe," he managed to say. "I don't know, Mon. I mean, sure, I have feelings for you, but you're my friend and you've been a good friend for a long time, and I don't particularly want to lose that. I mean, there's nobody else I can think of who would have dropped their entire lives to come help me keep this kid safe from people who wouldn't think twice about killing us to get to him."

She took his hand again, allowing herself to rub her thumb across his skin. "I really couldn't have done it any other way. I've liked you for far too long to just let you slip out of my life so easily."

He smiled at her in bemusement. "A long time?"

She nodded. "A long time indeed."

He was rubbing her hand in return by now. "What, since '98 when you came to visit me for my birthday? My buddies all thought you liked me, but I knew you had that thing going on with Brad, so I didn't believe them."

"No, longer than that."

"Before that? Man, I don't know. Was it during my divorce or something? I know we used to talk a lot back then."

"John, since the moment I met you and realized what kind of man you were, I loved you." She hadn't meant to say that, though she did mean it.

He grew melancholy. "That long, huh?" he asked, a little chilled by the fact that she had fallen in love with him during their first days of interaction as they worked on finding Luke.


	8. Chapter 8

"That long." She snuck a quick look at him, mainly to gauge his reaction, but instead saw how weary and exhausted her was. "You need to sleep. We'll be at the border by mid-morning."

He gave her hand another squeeze before curling up as best he could in the passenger seat. He was very grateful that Gibson was asleep as his sleep-deprived brain conjured up images and thoughts he didn't particularly want to share with anyone.

Monica drove on into the night, feeling triumphant. They had managed to get this far with relatively few complications. She was bringing the man she loved home to meet her mother. And then they would settled down, his words, somewhere, with this young man, and live like they were a family. She touched her fake ring, more pleased than anything at the green line that had been worn onto her skin already.

Gibson arose again in the early morning and they pulled over at a rest stop to get ready for the morning. They were in New Mexico and it would only be a matter of hours before they hit Sierra Vista in Arizona. Monica slept the next few hours in the backseat so that they would all be as rested as possible before attempting a crossing.

They discussed logistics over their breakfast of granola bars and bananas. This was the one place where they knew they'd leave a record. Two cameras were involved – one that would photograph their car and license plate and another than would take a picture of their faces. They didn't know at the moment if the border guards would have been notified of their presence. They just hoped that all attention had been diverted to finding them in Canada. As it was, they would trade the car in for another as soon as they could, preferably at the seediest car dealership they could find. John knew his way around engines and Gibson would be able to help with price negotiations.

"How much do we have in the way of money?" asked Monica for the first time. "I have about $10,000."

"Fourty-three thousand dollars," answered John calmly.

"Wait. How were you ever able to get so much cash without their noticing?"

"I've seen this coming for a long time. Not Gibson in particular, but the conspiracy in general making life a little … difficult."

She was surprised. She didn't see him as that kind of man, one who would allow for paranoia or the thought of fleeing in response to pressure from the bad guys.

"You didn't think I'd do something like that, did you?" he asked with a grin. "Even I have to pay attention to the writing on the wall."

"I still have $8,000 from helping Ricky," added Gibson. They both looked at him with amazement.

"When were you planning on telling us about that?"

"John…" warned Monica.

"I'm not mad at you. Just, we need to know these things."

Gibson didn't feel like speaking.

"He's trying to help," added Monica, coming to Gibson's defense. "I think we should just leave it. He earned that money and if anything happens to us, he should have something to fall back on. He didn't need to tell us at all."

John grumbled to himself, but dropped the subject. They discussed how they were going to smuggle in the cash and guns safely. Money was hidden on bodies, inside the seams of their bags, and in the frame of the car, as well as inside the seats of the car along with the two guns. John worked like a professional and within an hour they were back on the road.

It was just after noon when they came in sight of the border crossing. Their tension was palpable. They checked their new passports – they were Bill and Karen Jameson, their son was listed as Thomas Henry, and Gibson insisted he be referred to as Thomas.

"Just play it casual," instructed John. "Don't do anything over the top, but don't sit their like statues. We just all need to look like we've been on a great road trip and we're really looking forward to finally getting to see Mexico. Our driver's licenses say we're from Northern California, so we should say we stopped in Albuquerque to visit your parents. We're going to the coast first, maybe Porta Viarta. Then down to see… I dunno… how about those Mayan ruins? And Gibson, the first hint of trouble, you let us know immediately. If you can tell from the guards that they are looking for us, say something. I'll get us out of it somehow." Gibson could see the scenario in John's head… Monica being left at the wheel in line for the border, John taking him by the wrist in search of a bathroom, and then making a run for cover and trying a crossing at night on foot. "Monica, if anything happens, we need to have a meeting point in Mexico. You name it, we'll all meet there if separated."

She chose a town about thirty miles from the border and told him to just find the largest church there, and she would meet him in the pews.

"We're going to need to buy tourist cards when we get there and fill them out. They don't cost much at all. We will also need proof of ownership of the car, but Ricky did put your Bill Jameson pseudonym on the title, right?"

"And Gibson," she started to say.

"Thomas."

"Thomas, you should sit in the back and look as disinterested as possible. I think that such behavior from a teen would not raise any flags. Play your game. Try to stay out of sight if you can."

"Don't make eye contact, got it."

"And if you realize that anything is wrong,"

"I tell you immediately."

"So are we ready?" she asked.

"I think we are."

"Alright, let's do this." She giggled. "I almost feel like we should do some sort of huddle and a 'Go team!' cheer." Gibson looked up at her with a blank expression. John smiled and said in a soft voice, "Go team," to make her happy, which it did.

Their anxiety was the worse part about the crossing. They chose to go through Heroica Nogales. They drove up to the tourist office and purchased their cards. They shuffled into the line of cars waiting to cross. It was two in the afternoon on a Tuesday, so there was not a lot of traffic to deal with.

Monica kept looking back at him with a pleasant look on her face, but he knew she was nervous. He was busy trying to get through all the minds that stood between him and the guards. There was one. _ID. Check. Looks fine. I need to pee._ The man thought in Spanish, which was making it trickier, but Gibson could read enough of the emotions in his words to transcend the language barrier. Still, he could find nothing useful in the guards head.

Another one seemed slightly more of a problem. He was very focused on looking for suspicious behavior and seemed to want to make some kind of bust. He was glad that they were not in that line. Finally he managed to lock onto the thoughts of the guard in their line. He laughed as the man checked out the women coming through for inspection. He was particularly focused on searching for cars with single, attractive women in them. For some reason he seemed to think he had a chance at picking one of them up. He'd never managed that before though.

"They're all fine. No one seems to be looking for us." No sooner had he said that then he picked up something else. There was a man, a human, nearby, probably in a control room with TVs. He seemed very interested in examining the video footage of people coming across the border. He was looking for them. He had their pictures in front of him. Gibson closed his eyes and focused as hard as he could, practically putting his mind into the man's. He could almost see what he saw. Then, the man took note of the time on the video. He was reviewing tapes from the day before. He was hungry and tired and had another three hours of tapes to go through just to catch up to today. They would be safe for a little while longer. Still, it was not a preferable situation. And all it would take was one moment for him to turn around and look at the live monitors behind him and catch sight of them.

"There's a man. Looking at videos of yesterday's border crossing. But he's in the same room as the live feed. He's looking for us. But he's bored and doesn't think that he's going to find us."

"So we're safe for a little while, unless he sees us on the camera when we get up there?"

"Mmhm."

"We need to get you in a position that would look natural but would also keep you out of sight. Can you tell where the cameras are? Can you figure out any blind spots?" asked Monica.

"Well, it's a good think I haven't shaved in four days. Still, wish I could stick down my ears." John pushed back his hair, as if that would suddenly make it lie flat.

"It'll be fine. I have faith that we'll get through this. But I really wish one of us was telekinetic and could make the camera short circuit."

Gibson kept focused on the man in the control room, only moving his fingers across the gamepad for effect. He moved to the seat behind Monica, putting his head almost directly behind hers and slouching into his game with great intensity. And then he tried his best to send a signal to the man to get up and leave.

It almost never worked. He was rather surprised when Monica almost seemed to hear him at Ricky's. _Get up and walk. Get up and walk. You need a break. Rest your brain. Get up and walk. Get out of the room and grab a drink. You need to get out of the room._

The car in front of them moved into the lane and was given a random red light, meaning that they needed to pull over. It was a minor relief, for it meant that they were less likely to get pulled over for inspection. Just as the car was put into drive, the man in the tower felt his leg twitch and his eyes lose focus. He needed to get out of the room and away from useless video footage.

"He's gone!" Gibson said, nearly squealing in his hushed whisper. "He's heading towards the vending machine."

They quickly suppressed their wave of relief and turned it into smiles for the guard, except for Gibson who still hovered over his game.

The guard took their IDs and Thomas' passport. "Purpose of your trip?"

"We are headed to the coast for a week. Just had to get out of the mountains. Do some shopping too." She hoped she sounded like every other vacationer he'd dealt with during the day.

He handed them back their IDs. "Have a nice trip."

They got their green light and drove through. Within a minute, Monica let out a shriek of pure joy and John couldn't help but laugh heartily with relief. Even Gibson allowed a secret smile to cross his lips. If they hadn't been driving, John knew he would have pulled her in for a celebratory kiss. Instead, there wasn't much he could do but keep flashing her his most appreciative smile, which she readily exchanged for her own.

They were safe. For now. Within two days, they would be in Mexico City.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Seven: Meeting Mama Reyes

It didn't take too long for them to find a shady car dealership that was more than willing to sell them a decent vehicle along with fake car insurance. They had to be prepared for rough roads, warned Monica, and so John settled on a Ford pick-up with four wheel drive and a covered back. They would have plenty of room to store supplies and they could crash in the back if they needed too.

Monica seemed bound and determined to get to Mexico City as soon as possible, but John was more ambivalent. He wanted to wait and see if anything happened, if anyone was trailing them or of their faces ended up on the front page of the paper.

As they bumped along a less than well-maintained road, Monica put her hand on his thigh – she'd progressed from hand holding to this more possessive gesture – and tried again to persuade him. "The sooner we get there, the sooner we can get out. As soon as they figure out we're here, they'll be hunting us. I want to see her before I lose that opportunity. Otherwise, I really will have to wait a full year before it's safe."

He felt at a loss, and worse, he felt absolutely at her whim. He must be in love, because he wouldn't normally consider such a bone-headed thing. "I'll think about it. We'll just stay on this road for a while and get as close to Mexico City as we can and then we'll talk about it again."

They camped that night by the side of the road. A tent, blankets and pillows had all been procured, as well as a decent stash of food and various survival equipment that John felt were necessary. He stayed in the tent with Gibson, after setting Monica up in the cozy confines of the truck.

It was quiet where they were, somewhere off the beaten path. They could hear various insects, cicadas and crickets, chirping away into the dry night. Monica sat with her knees up on the tailgate of the truck, and when John sat down beside her, she leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder.

"It's strange being back, yet it feels right. I haven't lived here since I was 18." 

"You miss it?"

"I don't know. I don't feel like I ever truly lived here. I spent my entire childhood wishing my birth parents had kept me or at least given me to another American family. I went to the American high school in Mexico City. I was friends with the daughters of the American diplomats. I only spoke Spanish at home. It wasn't that I looked down on Mexico, it was just that I truly believed I was meant to have lived in America."

"And now?"

"I realize it's my home. When I came here to find you, I clicked. I walked off the plane and onto Mexican land, and I knew what my purpose was. I felt like a Mexicana. I spoke my language and felt nostalgic."

He wrapped his arm around her and kissed the top of her head.

"I want to see my mother, John. I am willing to go alone. I don't want to put Gibson's life in danger any more than it already is."

"I'm not going to let you go alone. And maybe it is high time I finally meet Mr. and Mrs. Reyes."

"Senor y Senora Reyes," she said, rolling her Rs in a most alluring manner.

He repeated and laughed at his poor accent. "I suppose you'll have to be our language teacher."

"Don't worry, I'm an easy grader."

He gave her a sideways hug. "We should get to sleep. Gotta take advantage of getting to stretch out for the first time in days." He got up and looked at her. She expected him to kiss her, but he still did not have such courage. All she could do was give herself a melancholic smile as he walked away.

They hit the chaotic nightmare of Mexico City traffic in the evening. John had not seen anyone following them, and Gibson had not picked up on anything either. Monica was euphoric, pointing out landmarks and telling her companions about high school adventures and family outings throughout the city. By the time they pulled up to the iron gates around her home, darkness had already fallen, which was John's primary goal. Monica's ebullience at her return was also proving to be worth the trip. He couldn't help smiling in return, despite the situation.

John pressed the buzzer at the gate and a woman answered. Monica leaned over and rattled back in Spanish, which he didn't really understand, "Flora, it's Monica. Can you let me in? Don't tell Mama, I want to surprise her." The gate slid open and they drove in.

Monica's childhood home was already not what he expected with the black iron gate and security box at the front. It seemed almost palatial to him – two stories spread out in a wide angle in front of them. A two car garage was separate from the house. Dozens of large plants were spread out across the front. And the entry was two huge wooden doors, ornately carved in a colonial style. He never thought of her as having grown up in such luxury.

Not that he had much time to think on it. No sooner had he shut off the engine than she gave him a gentle push. He hopped out and she ran right past him to ring the bell. Gibson made his way over and they started to walk up behind her.

The door opened slowly, probably because of the immense weight. An older woman who looked to be about 70 suddenly exclaimed with pure joy, "Mi ija!" and threw her arms around Monica, who was busy crying out, "Mama!" in return. Kisses were flying, hands were lovingly touching faces, and when she turned around, John saw that they both had tears in their eyes.

"Mama," said Monica, switching into English. "This is John." There was more than a little pride in her voice. "And this is our friend Gibson."

John immediately stuck out his hand to greet her. "I'm glad to finally meet you, ma'am."

Senora Reyes smiled at him, took one more look at Monica, and then embraced him, which he wasn't expecting. "I am pleased, very pleased to meet you too, Mr. Doggett." She looked at the boy and felt nervous in his presence, though she did not know why exactly. Perhaps because he only stood there and stared.

"Hi," he finally managed to say, mainly so Monica would quit telling him in her head to be polite. "Um. Hola?"

Senora Reyes laughed in amusement and gave the boy a quick squeeze. "You all must be tired. You come inside now and eat and rest. Come, come!" she said, waving them inside. "And give Flora your keys. She'll park your truck in the garage."

Monica looked at her. "I thought you had two cars?"

"We do. But Papa is away on 'business.'"

"Golf?"

"Yes, of course."

As Flora hid their truck, Senora Reyes warmed up the teapot and brought them everything she could scrounge up in the kitchen. "I will have Flora fix you something filling and then let her know she doesn't have to stay with me tonight."

Half an hour later, they were seated at the table eating strip steak wrapped in tortillas.

"So, now, you must tell me what is going on, Monica. The FBI, they called me days ago saying that you had kidnapped a child and had run away with your partner. I did not believe them. The Monica I know would never do something so foolish. But they insisted. And I insisted back. And then they told me to call if I heard from you. I said I would, but of course I will not. I know, if my Monica has kidnapped a child and run off with her John, then there was something I did not know. What is it?"

"Mama. Gibson is very… special. And a lot of people want to hurt him or take him against his will. There were difficulties at work with another agent, and Gibson came to help, but things did not go well. The agent was sentenced to death."

"I did not hear about this in the papers."

"No, that's because it was all behind closed doors. It was a military court, trying Agent Mulder for a crime he did not commit. We had proof he did not commit the crime and still they sentenced him to death."

"The boy had proof?"

"Gibson does play a role in the truth. He is only one part, but he's… he's the most vulnerable. John and I helped Agent Mulder escape, but it cost John his job and they tried to blackmail me into giving them the boy. At that point, we ran."

Senora Reyes shook her head in disbelief. "I never thought my daughter would do something like this. But at the same time, I know exactly why she would have done something like this." She added, in Spanish, "For love and justice, yes?"

Monica nodded while looking at John, curious to know if he understood her.

"How is John's Spanish?" asked her mother, referring to him as Juan.

He knew they were talking about him, the eyes alone would have told him so, but he understood Juan and espanol. "No hablo espanol. Yet."

"Very good, very good," continued her mother in Spanish. "You are now together? You do not keep your mother up to date about your relationships enough, mi ija."

"Mama, there's been so little to report in the last few years."

"But I spoke to you on Papa's birthday last month and you told me you thought it was only a matter of time."

Monica looked again at John, who was painfully aware that they were discussing him. If he wasn't sitting across the table from her, she would have taken his hand. "Things are going well, Mama, but there is nothing specific to report. Anyway, we shouldn't speak in Spanish in front of him. He doesn't understand us."

Senora Reyes shrugged. "You are all tired, yes? Monica, you can get the boys sheets and show them to your old room. I'm much too old to trudge up those stairs these days. You sleep tonight and we will talk in the morning about what to do. You're safe now, though. So rest and do not worry."

She bid them goodnight, kissing her daughter once again and touching her face as though she never thought she'd see her again.

Monica led John and Gibson up the stairs of her family home. She turned on the light to her old bedroom. It hadn't changed much. Two twin beds with white linen spreads lay on one side. Her white wicker dressing table still had pictures of high school friends tucked into the sides of the mirror. Across the hall was the guest room, with a large dark bed. And in the middle of the hall were pictures.

John had never seen her as a child and he couldn't help but stop and examine them. There she was as a beaming little girl, missing her front tooth, her hair in pigtails. Another picture was her at her first confirmation, wearing a white dress with a crinoline. There was another picture of her – her quinceañera, she explained when John asked – with her hair wrapped around her head in a braid, a small crown resting in front, and what looked to be a grand white wedding gown. "That's the celebration marking the change from girlhood to womanhood. It is the greatest day of a young woman's life. You are a princess for the day. My father saw to it that we threw one of the grandest quinceañera in the history of our little neighborhood. I had over five hundred people come. It was … magical," she said, glowing from the memory of it.

She set them up with sheets and showed them where the bathroom was. She wanted greatly for John to come and share her bed that night, but she'd also noticed how he was incapable of being more than three feet away from Gibson, as though he might be snatched away even under her parents' roof.

After a long indulgent bath during which she shaved her legs and washed her hair for the first time in days, she collapsed into bed, exhausted, and fell asleep fairly quickly.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed when she was awakened by a knock at the door and John calling out her name softly. When she opened her eyes, she saw his head peeking in.

"You asleep?"

"Mmm, no," she said, groggily. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's fine. Go back to sleep."

"No, John, come in."

He hesitated only for a second and slipped in, leaving the door open more to fulfill his duty as Gibson's guardian than anything else.

Despite her head being thick with sleep, she still was overjoyed at his presence and sat up, hoping against hope that he had come in for a certain reason.

"Do you mind if I sit next to you?"

She shook her head and moved over for him. He was still wearing his jeans and she wondered if he'd forgotten to bring something to sleep in. Then she realized it was just because he didn't feel safe there and was prepared to run at any moment.

He felt light-headed. Part of it was undoubtedly the severe lack of sleep, but most of it was due to the house, full of her, her history, her family. And it was quiet. Too quiet. Too big. The silence felt like it had mass and it suffocated him. He felt her hand land on his thigh and he felt his body start to react to that, so he took her hand in his.

"Mon, how much do you know about my personal life?"

"I know you're a good man, an honorable man," she began.

"No, I mean, like, relationships and stuff."

"Your dating history?"

"Sure, I guess you could call it that."

She realized she knew nothing. "Aside from Barbara, I suppose I do not know anything." She felt like a failure. It never occurred to her that he might have had something going on with anyone in the past half dozen years.

"That's because there's not really much to know. I'm not angel. I don't think I'm really the kind of man you think I am. I've had my share of women. A man's got needs, you know?" he said, apologetically. "But Monica, Barbara's the only woman I've ever been in a relationship with. I mean, aside from my high school girlfriend."

"Ok."

"I just… I want you to know that I… I want more than anything to stay in here tonight. But I want to take it slow with you. Not because I don't think this'll work. I just… I want to enjoy it. I want to stretch out all these good things that can happen. I want to go one step at a time. Does that make sense?" he asked, looking at her with only the glow of the hallway light on her face.

He could see her chest rising and falling as though she'd just gone for a run. "You ok?" he asked, scared that he might have hurt her.

"Yeah," she whispered. "You're just the most amazing man I think I have ever met."

He laughed. "I thought you already believed that."

She smiled in response.

They sat there in silence for a while longer, she with her head on his shoulder, his head resting on hers. The silence grew thick again and he felt his own breaths grow labored. He turned towards her and raised his hand to her cheek, cupping her jaw in his hand. She ran her tongue along her lips and left them slightly parted. He thought as he kissed her that it was the most amazing kiss he'd had in possibly his entire life. It was as though every cell of his body in contact with her was dancing with excitement. She let him keep it light and gentle, nothing to arouse them significantly. He needed to keep himself in check. When he pulled away, she kept hold of his arm, not wanting him to leave her.

"Stay, just until I fall asleep," she said softly. He assented.

She lay back down, pressing her body against his legs, and he ran his fingers through the brown hair he'd only touched before in his daydreams. And even though she fell asleep quickly, he stayed for another half hour just watching her sleep, wondering what would become of them.

He didn't like to think too much about their first meeting, because it always brought back memories of the worst time in his life. He didn't like that she had to be associated with that. He tried instead to remember happier moments, long after she'd somehow managed to slip into his life. They used to hang out in the city, back when she was still a field agent and was still a detective. She was always on his case back then to become an FBI agent, telling him how good he would be at it, and how he'd be accepted no problem. She liked to invite him over to watch movies, and he would instead find himself at a little party with other agents who had all heard on the grapevine that he was interested in becoming an agent. He would look up and find her eyes already on him, and a hand on her mouth trying to stifle her giggles. He remembered nights out at the bar, shooting pool and getting wasted. She always knew what to do to help him relax and get his mind off of the things that had forever tinted his life grey.


	10. Chapter 10

Now as she lay sleeping beside him, he could not deny how happy she made him. His ridiculous fantasies over the last several months were proving to have merit. He hadn't kidded himself. And he hoped he hadn't gotten her hopes up in vain. And maybe, he admitted to himself, he really did need her. A man had all kinds of needs and some of his more complex needs hadn't been realized in more years than he cared to count. When he slipped out of bed, he left another kiss on her cheek and walked out with greater reluctance than he'd expected.

The next morning, Monica awoke feeling like it was a dream, the night before. She indulgently touched her lips and let the memory play over and over again in her mind. She was fully awake now, more from hormones than anything else. Three years, since she left Brad, she'd remained abstinent, mainly through sheer willpower. Of course, devoting herself to her career, being the oddball in New Orleans and consequently having few friends to go out with, and certainly never doing anything so foolish as to go and look for anyone had all proven very helpful in her strange desire to save herself for John. Would she have been able to continue on that path if he'd left on his own? She couldn't say. It was of no consequence now. Soon enough he would be willing to go down that road.

She crawled out of bed and sat on one of the rugs in the room to do some morning yoga and meditation, two things that usually helped to calm her down and focus her mind. When she felt appropriately balanced again, she peeked in to see John and Gibson still very much asleep in her old room, and then she headed downstairs.

Her mother was already there, sipping on a cup of weak black coffee. "Did you sleep well?" she asked.

"Mmhm."

"And John? Did he sleep well too?" she asked, her question heavy with meddling and disapproval.

Monica narrowed her eyes at her mother. "Mama, I slept in the guest room. John stayed in my old room. Besides, I would never… not in your house."

Her mother wasn't exactly a staunch Catholic, but she held fast to some of the basics of her religion.

"But you are… sleeping with him?"

"No, Mama. We're not. We haven't."

"Good. I know you see the world differently than I do, but I hope you understand the importance of not rushing into such things. I would have preferred to see you in white on your wedding day, of course, but I suppose if I can just see you getting married, that will have to appease me. Still, I would prefer that you at least do what you can to make up for past misdeeds."

Monica sighed. _Oh, right_, she thought, _There is a reason I do not talk to my mother too often._

Her mother reached across the breakfast table and squeezed Monica's hand in her own. "Mi ija. I love you. No matter what. And if he's half the man you've claimed he is, then no mother could possibly be disappointed. Just promise me one thing, wedding first, kids second."

Monica closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She gave her mother a half-hearted smile. "Mama, I think we've got more to worry about than marriage and children."

"Ah yes, yes you do. This is an interesting predicament you've gotten yourself into. The boy…?"

"He knows things. And there are people who would kill him to prevent others from knowing about him."

"He knows secrets? Government secrets? Military secrets?"

"He knows… everything. I can't really explain. I shouldn't. The more you know, the more dangerous it is for you."

Gibson did not awaken until nearly noon, proving to be somewhat of a real teenager after all. He and John headed downstairs, finding Monica and her mother chatting away in Spanish. Monica fixed them huevos rancheros, wanting them to have traditional Mexican fare.

"What will you do today?" asked her mother, in English.

John looked up at Monica and she could tell he wanted her to intervene and explain that they had to leave. But she wasn't ready. Not yet. She wanted one more day, hopeful that fate would bring her father's home a few days early. So she threw a look back at John that said No.

"I think we should relax today. We cannot stay much longer, but for now, we're safe. So, why don't we go for a swim?"

"A swim? You have a pool here too?" asked John, a little surprised.

"I guess first I will have to give you a real tour, now that the sun is out."

John continued to be astounded by the home. Perhaps it really wasn't that big to some, and when he compared it to his own recently abandoned home, it wasn't all that much larger. But it stretched out in ways he did not expect a home in a huge city to stretch out.

"All the houses in this neighborhood are like this," explained Monica as they stood in the backyard looking at the pool, which was a comfortable size. All around them stretched a tall, imposing rock wall, with tall trees hanging down on both sides. The ground was mainly dirt, with a few patches of brown grass and still fewer patches of green. Shrubby trees dotted the landscape and in the back corner was a small stone building with a peaked roof and a thin white cross on top.

"A chapel?"

"Mmhm. My mother had it built when they bought the house. It gives her comfort." She took him to see it. Two small pews sat in front of an altar of an antique cross and a traditional Mexican painting of Jesus on one side and the Virgin Mary on the other. She seemed uneasy in there. "Let's go for that swim," she said, moving them out the door.

"I didn't bring a swimsuit. Gibson doesn't have one either."

"You came to Mexico, during the summer no less, and didn't bring a swimsuit? I don't think you thought this all the way through. No worries, I will go see what Papa has in his closet."

She disappeared for a while, leaving them by the side of the pool. Gibson looked up at John doubtfully.

John shrugged. "Might as well. It's nearly a hundred degrees out here, or at least that's what it feels like. You got any premonitions or anything? 'Cause the moment you say we should go, we'll go. Our bags are packed. We'll be out of here in two minutes."

Gibson looked back at the massive enclosure of water. "I can't swim."

John laughed. "We're not going to toss you in the deep end and sit here and watch. You can just go into the shallow end and cool off in the water."

Gibson didn't respond, just continued to stare at the water with large eyes.

Monica returned with two swimsuits and directed them to a small door attached to the garage. "Changing room," she explained. She was already sporting the suit she kept there for her rare summer trips home and John wondered if it was really such a good thing to be spending time in the water with her looking like that and him wearing very little. He hoped the water was very cold. When he looked at Gibson, he found the boy fighting a smile, and then hightailing it to the changing room.

She did look truly amazing, however. Despite having a more modest one piece, she chose a two piece, proving that she wasn't above a little visual manipulation. Gibson wasn't entirely blind himself, and seeing him blush and turn away made her understand that having a 14-year-old boy might put a crimp into her seduction plans for John. For now, though, he seemed content to sit on the steps and dunk his head underwater every once in a while.

"You look good," said John, feeling that it was the response she was going for.

"Ignoring the fact that you are in my father's swim trunks, so you do." She was struck by how good he looked without a shirt, water dripping off of his body. "I've never seen your tattoo. That was what you used to find your way back to us the last time you were in Mexico." She touched it gently, tracing the outline, well aware of the muscular arm on which it was imprinted.

"You mind if I swim some laps?" he asked, eager to get away and try to get his blood flowing in less dangerous places.

She swam over to Gibson who was sitting on the steps staring off into the distance. He wore a t-shirt and didn't seem to want to look at her. "John told me you didn't know how to swim."

Gibson shrugged.

"Did you want to learn? Might be useful. We could go somewhere with a beach later. You'd enjoy it."

He still seemed distant. She nudged him with her elbow. "Come on, I'll help you."

He shook his head. "I don't want to learn to swim."

"You just don't know what you're missing."

"I don't think I can."

"It's easier to move in water, if that's what your concerned about."

"I'm not concerned about anything except listening."

"Ah, you are a serious kid, huh? You take after John."

"You want this to be a vacation, but it can't be. They won't stop coming after me."

"You know very well that I am aware of that. And you also know I'm not going to spend our time hiding in fear every moment. All we can do is make the best of our situation. And right now, I think the best we can do is enjoy this sunny day and this pool. And you should take advantage of the swimming lesson that is being offered."

He relented, but he would try only for five minutes, he said. He felt stupid, being held aloft by Monica, being told how to kick and how to move his arms. He really should have learned this. Other kids were taught how to swim.

Within half an hour he was doggy paddling it back and forth across the pool, only stopping for a few desperate seconds, clinging to the edge and trying to catch his breath. John ruffled his hair and congratulated him on his progress. He managed a shy half-smile.

At dinner that night, John found himself full of curiosity. "May I ask, Mrs. Reyes," he said as he cut up the steak Monica had cooked (he was pleasantly surprised to find that she was a decent and reliable chef), "what your husband did for a living before retiring?"

"Just my husband? Well, Esteban worked for the government for many years. He worked in the agricultural department and handled many trade deals with the US."

"Must be a good business to be in."

"Yes, it treated us well."

"Mama worked too, until I came along. Tell him Mama."

"I didn't do anything special."

"Mama's father, my grandfather Manuel, was a diplomat to France and later to Portugal. Mama grew up overseas. Before me, she worked at the French consulate here in Mexico City. She was the only woman there who wasn't busy serving tea."

"I didn't do much, just helped as a translator and guide."

"To visiting dignitaries and French government officials."

Senora Reyes waved it off as if it were nothing. "I was only biding time until Monica entered our lives. I wanted a child far more than I wanted to tell the president of Franch where the best restaurants were. But it took a long time for her to find her way to us. I was old. Older than you are now, dear," she said to Monica, which made her daughter give her a look. "She was perfect. The most beautiful baby I ever saw. Monica, go get your baby album."

"This was her first picture. She was three days old. Esteban had called me from Texas where he was in the middle of trade negotiations. He told me there was an abandoned baby there without a mother or a father to take care of her. He asked me if I might want to adopt. I said yes without even having met her.

"We'd never discussed adoption. I prayed and I prayed to Saint Anthony, begging for a miracle, and he gave me one. I flew to Austin immediately. Her little hands were so perfect," she said, taking her daughter's hand as she spoke, examining it as thoroughly as she might have done some 34 years earlier. The ring that her daughter still stubbornly wore caught her attention. She would need to do something about that later.

They continued to look through the pages, watching the progression of the infant Monica to the toddler to a young girl with pigtails, like the picture in the hallway. John was captivated and kept flashing her his trademark smile.

"You look tired, Mama," said Monica looking up from the last page. "We should let you sleep."

"I'm fine, fine. But if you don't mind, I would like to borrow John."

Slipping immediately into Spanish, Monica questioned her. "What are you planning to say to him? I don't want you to tell him anything."

"Mi ija, you worry too much. If you are set on making him my son-in-law one day, then surely you can give me some time alone with him to get to know him."

"You are going to question him, aren't you? I don't want you to hassle him or guilt him or anything of the sort."

"Monica," broke in John. "I'm ok if your mother wants to talk to me."

She bit her lip trying not to respond.

John stood up and took her mother by her arm. They walked down the tiled hallway with it's intricate carved wooden walls and into the master bedroom. She directed him to a sitting area and sat opposite him, her hands poised in her lap.

"What are your intentions with my daughter?" she asked, not wasting any time.


	11. Chapter 11

He was really hoping she'd be nice to him. This was a question he wasn't prepared to answer, for he wasn't entirely sure what his intentions were.

"Ma'am, my intentions are to keep your daughter safe for the time being. I intend to bring her back to you when our safety can be assured."

Senora Reyes looked at him without expression. He smiled as best he could.

"I think you are avoiding the question. You know what I mean by that. I am fully aware of Monica's ability to take care of herself. Perhaps it is her intention to keep you safe. Perhaps, Mr. Doggett, you will need her help instead." She paused again for a long time, trying to unnerve him. "I ask, Mr. Doggett, what your intentions are with my daughter, and by that I mean, do you intend to marry her?"

John's brow furrowed unexpectedly for a half second. "I hadn't really thought that far."

"But you love her?"

"Hadn't thought that far either. I mean, sure, as a friend, without a doubt. But I… this is… what has she told you?"

"Monica's been telling me about you for many years. I know about your son, I know about your ex-wife and your divorce, I know about your career. It makes you nervous knowing that I know so much?"

"I just… she only just told me that she… this is all new to me, really. I'm ok with it, it's just odd knowing I was left out of the loop for so long."

"My thought is that you don't particularly want to be in the loop. A mother listens to her daughter talk endlessly about a man and never once does she hear anything that would make her thing the man is interested. It makes a mother think twice about that man when he finally shows up at her doorstep intending to run away with her daughter."

John felt beat down. "I want to have an answer for you. Heck, I'd like to have one for myself. But I don't. Not a good one. Certainly not one that will satisfy you."

"You are not sure how you feel about her?"

"Well, I like her, yes. And if things weren't the way they are, maybe I'd have a better response, maybe not. I'm grateful that she came along and I can see things progressing. But I can't say for sure what the future would bring us."

"I think that you might be a man who doesn't examine his heart very often. I worry about that. Monica needs to be loved. She deserves a man who will be honest with her and with himself, a man who will give her his heart in full, not just a sliver here and there. She tells me that once you are sure of something, you commit to it full-heartedly."

He sat there, trying his best to remain composed and to figure out the correct thing to say. It surprised him when Senora Reyes started to laugh. "You are a serious man, I can see that. I appreciate it. I know you wouldn't purposely hurt her and you wouldn't give her false hope. And when you do get around to listening to your heart, you'll make the right choice." She studied him again, longer and harder, but with the remains of a smile still playing on her lips. She removed the rings from her third finger and handed him the smaller of the two.

"What's this?" 

"Monica has been clinging to that cheap ring like it's her security blanket. One day, you need to get her a real ring. This is the ring that her father gave me back when we were young and not as well off."

It was a simple band of gold with a square setting of five tiny diamonds.

"It was his mother's. It should stay in the family. Esteban's nieces and nephews have all asked for it, but I've saved it for Monica." She looked lovingly down at the other ring, which she slipped back onto her finger. It was ornate, with several high quality diamonds arranged in an ornate gold setting. She touched it with the fingers of her right hand. "Esteban gave me this on our 25th wedding anniversary. If you can give Monica just a fraction of the happiness he has given me, I know that she will be happy."

There were tears forming in her eyes, and she took both his hands in hers. "I want you to take good care of my daughter. I want you to love her with every part of your being. Promise her mother that you will do that."

"I promise," he said, no longer able to even think about what he was really promising to, and incapable of taking it the full significance of the ring wrapped tightly in his palm.

She smiled again and patted his hands. "Would you be a dear and escort me upstairs? I need to talk to Monica before she goes to bed."

He offered her an arm. She wasn't tiny, and she wasn't quite dwarfed by him, but she was older and obviously in frail health. Monica never mentioned anything about having an elderly mother and it had been a surprise to meet her. But for what she lacked in physical vitality, she made up for it in personality, chatting to him the whole, slow way up the staircase.

They found Gibson in a chair by the window looking out and Monica sitting on the floor going through old knickknacks from a drawer of her dresser. Senora Reyes was winded, and John made her take a seat to rest.

"How did it go?" Monica asked John.

"We had a nice chat," he answered, painfully aware of the ring in his pocket and hoping that she didn't notice it.

"I only wanted to talk to your friend John and get to know him a little better."

John seemed antsy and she narrowed her eyes. She figured she would talk to him later, when her mother wasn't around.

"Why are you upstairs? I thought the stairs were too much for you?"

"Oh, John was a gentleman and graciously offered me his arm. I wanted to talk to you, Monicita. In your father's office."

Behind the closed door of the office, Monica studied her mother. "Are you alright?" she asked, concerned.

"It's just late for me, that is all. I will rest later. Now though, we need to get your affairs in order."

"My affairs?"

"For your little trip. Do you have money? Do you have a plan? How will you survive?"

"We do have money. John has been prepared for a long time, I managed to get several thousand dollars out of the band, and even Gibson seems to have something substantial to live on.

"Coming to Mexico was my plan. I just felt that our place was here. But I'm not sure where we are going."

"You will need more money," said her mother. "The Federales can usually be bought off, but if you're in as much trouble as it seems, you will need lots of money." She motioned for Monica to follow her and reached her hand into one of the bookcases. It jumped slightly. "Pull it from the wall."

Behind it lay a little door and behind that, a medium-sized safe. Monica gave a curious smile to her mother. "Your father has a penchant for silly movies. I think he wanted to be a spy when he was younger, but instead, he talks corn and hides a safe behind a bookcase."

Her mother swung the dial around a few times and opened the door. Inside were various papers, a gun that had once belonged to a great-uncle, and many bundles of cash. "Your father is also a practical man, like your John. In case anything were to happen, he wants to be prepared. I believe that there are a half a million pesos there," she said, handing it all to her wide-eyed daughter.

"Mama, that's about a fifty thousand dollars. I can't take all that."

"If you think your father wouldn't do the same thing, then you do not know him very well. We have plenty of money in the bank, and he can withdraw more later and hide it away in his safe. You need this now." Monica made no effort to take the money. "M'ija, your mother would not be able to sleep at night without knowing that she had helped as much as she could."

She began to cry and wrapped her arms around her daughter. "You will need to leave soon. It is only a matter of time. If it's ever safe again, you come home. Promise me you'll come home."

"I promise."

They held on to one another for a while longer before separating and wiping away their tears. Monica helped her mother downstairs and told her she'd see her in the morning.

When she returned upstairs, she found Gibson still staring out the window. "Anything?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Then you should get some sleep."

The boy crawled under the covers, his head still facing the window. She sat on the edge of the bed beside him and took of his glasses. _You did good today_, she thought to him, for it seemed silly and strangely loud at bedtime to speak. _You learned how to swim today. We're going to be ok. You'll see. You need to stop worrying and just try to get what enjoyment you can from life. But for now, you really need to get some sleep. We'll leave tomorrow, ok?_

He nodded and closed his eyes, though he did not turn off his brain.

John sat on the other bed, still clad in jeans and a t-shirt, pouring over maps. He wanted to head southwest toward the water, if he could ever convince Monica to leave. She sat at the foot of his bed, and looked at what he had laid out before him. "We need to leave soon."

"I know," she said. "Tomorrow morning, we'll go."

"Good." He showed her where he wanted to go and she agreed with him, knowing the area to be pretty rural with more places for them to hide out.

"You should get some rest too tonight," she said, starting to fold up the maps for him.

John looked over at Gibson whose eyes were open again. "Let's go to your room," he said, and her stomach fluttered with excitement.

She started pulling her sleeping clothes out of her bag, but John reached out and stopped her hands. "Humor me tonight and sleep in what you've got on. I have a bad feeling. And Gibson does too, I think, judging by the quiet. I think we should be ready to go soon. You have everything packed? Good. I think that's gotta be a strict rule from now on. Keep your back packed. Don't ever, even for a minute, leave it unready. I think we should always be ready to run."

"I know. I just… I hate having to live our lives always in a panic. I think Gibson needs a break from that kind of fear."

"Yes, he does. But unfortunately that is not a possibility for him. Not yet. I don't know if he'll ever know what it's like to live without fear, without being hunted. The kid's been through hell and back and the only way he's going to survive is by staying on his guard."

She felt downhearted at that, but she understood perfectly. She put her pajamas back in her bag and looked around the room making sure she hadn't left anything behind. Then it was just her and John, standing there alone.

"I'm suddenly not very tired."

"Well we should both try to sleep regardless." He allowed himself to touch her, to brush the hair from her cheek and tuck it behind her ear. The room seemed thick with quiet again and he knew he needed to kiss her or he would never be able to breath again. Their lips met, soft and delicate, and she parted his lips with her tongue. Heads tilted for a better angle. His hands landed on her neck and he pulled her in closer, desperate to have his body touching hers.

A cough. The both turned. Gibson stood in the door. "We need to go now," he said.

Bags were grabbed, they ran down the stairs. "We have to tell my mother goodbye." John nodded.

Monica ran to her mother's bedside and dropped to her knees. She pushed her hair back and kissed her forehead. "Mama, we need to go. I'm sorry we can't stay longer." She looked back at Gibson. "Are they coming here? Should she get up?" He shrugged.

"We're not sure. Just… be careful. And if they pressure you for anything, do what you need to to protect yourself. We'll be fine. Tell them you don't know where we're going. Tell them you never saw us. And if they figure out that we were here, tell them that we were."

Senora Reyes touched her daughter's cheek. "Do not worry, m'ija. I know how to handle them. I will keep your secrets safe. Go, fast. And John," she called out. "You take care of her."

"I will, ma'am."

Chapter 8: Love and Loss

With that they were out the door, into the truck, out the garage and the gate, which took an eternity to slide open. Down the streets of Mexico City they drove, into the darkness, through neighborhoods, following Monica's directions. They made it to a highway and were soon zipping along at 60 miles an hour, heading southwest as planned.

Gibson sat in between them. Monica took his hand now, feeling that he might be scared and upset at their sudden departure. "Do you think they're following us?"

He closed his eyes and focused. "No, maybe. I don't know. We should just keep driving."

And so they did. It was nearly midnight when they left. Around 2 a.m., Gibson's head began to droop and Monica told him in her head to just rest his head against her. He was still snoring lightly when the sun began to rise the next morning. They were just driving through the town of Chilpancingo de Los Bravo, high in the mountains of Guerrero.

"John, let's stop here."

He agreed, more from the desire to stop than the desire to stay. It was still early enough that few people were out and about. There seemed to be no restaurants or food purchasing stops of any kind in the vicinity. They pulled over on the side of the road.

"Are you sure it's safe here?"

"No. But that's what Gibson is for," she said, referring to the boy who was slumped against her, sleeping away, despite the treacherous journey on less than perfect roads. "I wouldn't mind shutting my eyes for a bit," she said, obviously struggling to stay awake. He was every bit as tired as her, probably more so, but he could hardly let her keep watch. They stopped in the street and waited.

John watched people walk by, and they watched him, with distrust. A few donkeys and carts walked past, and John wished that Monica was awake to see it. In an hour, he shook their shoulders. "What do we do now?"

"We should find a place to stay. Let's get out."

They shuffled through the small town, and Monica approached a street vendor asking for a good place to stay for a while, and he directed them to a Senora Guerrero who owned a small apartment building with a few vacancies.

She was just waking up for the morning when they knocked at her door. "Yes?" she answered.

"We were told you had an apartment available," Monica responded. The woman looked her up and down, and took note of her very white companions. But Monica's speech was impeccable, with no trace of a non-Mexican accent.

"I might have something available. What are you looking for?"

"Two bedroom, if possible."

"I have a few options. Would you like to see?"

She took them inside the building, which was stucco with iron bars over all the street level windows, and was painted bright pink. The second floor had the only available options. One was further from an exit than the other, and John preferred to be able to run as quickly as possible. The apartment they inspected had two bedrooms indeed, but one was tiny. A monk's cell, said Monica, for it had nothing more than a narrow bed and a chair. The master bedroom had a large sagging brass bed. In the living room, there was an old couch that had seen far better days, and an open kitchen area with a metal table and four mismatched chairs. It would do.

They paid in cash and were given the keys, along with directions to the nearest market and a store that sold basic supplies. The apartment however, came fully stocked with pots and pans and all kinds of cookware. Monica left them to settle in and went to buy food – tortillas and chilies, fruits and vegetables, eggs and pork, bottled water. They were both asleep when she came home and she didn't have the heart to wake them. Gibson was sprawled out on the small bed and John was being absorbed into the couch. There really wasn't much more for her to do than indulge in a few hours of sleep as well.

It was nearly 2 before they started moving again. She grilled up some food and warned them both that she wasn't going to be doing all the cooking. "You may regret that, Monica," laughed John.

"So," she asked as they ate, "What exactly are we supposed to do to occupy ourselves?"

"Just keep a low profile. We should stay indoors as much as we can for a while, and then slowly start to integrate ourselves into the community."

"But what do we do?"

"There's a TV," said Gibson, referring to the tiny box set with rabbit ear antennas.

"You realize that's only going to get local Mexican stations."

He shrugged and ** switched it on, finding indeed that there were only Mexican stations. But eventually he came across Mexican wrestling, which seemed good enough to appease him and he sat on the couch.

She and John could do little more than join him on the couch and watch. It was a painfully dull afternoon though they took turns choosing shows. John found a soccer game and Monica made them all watch the news. She was gracious enough to translate for them and made a mental note to try to pick up supplies to start teaching them Spanish, though she did make them parrot back words from time to time. After a dinner of strip steak and chilies in tortillas, and after the sun started to set, they realized that across the street was a bar. "We have to go out," said Monica. "No better way to integrate into the community than to show up at their local pub."

"I'm not so sure about that," answered John. "We don't know who will be there, or who will notice us, or who they will feel like they need to notify. We shouldn't draw attention to ourselves."

"John, it's ok. They will be more curious about us if we stayed holed up inside for a week. It's just across the street. We can slip in and go unnoticed. Come on!"

He relented, as he always did. He didn't understand why he could not stand up to her.

The three of them sidled across the street and opened the doors to a medium sized bar. Chairs lined the poured concrete walls and a well used pool table stood to the side, being used by some men that John did not want to tangle with. Monica directed them to the chairs and walked up to the bar to order drinks. The bartender eyed her suspiciously, as did the other patrons who had shushed their talking down to whispers. She ordered two beers and a Coke in her Guadalajaran accent, which earned her the quiet approval of the bartender, who passed along an almost imperceptible nod of approval for the rest of the bar to see.

She brought the drinks over and handed them off, taking a long swig of her beer. Traditional Mexican music piped out of the jukebox and a few couples were dancing in the middle of the floor. Her own body began to rock in beat to the music and she laughed with glee, making John eye her suspiciously as he drained half his beer at once.

"We went dancing once, do you remember that?"

"God, that was ages ago."

"1997," she answered. "It was my birthday. You were miserable, I think, at the club with all my friends."

"Miserable's not the right word. I was just uncomfortable. You were the only one there that I knew."

"And you were the only one there I cared about at all. I only threw that party on the off chance that you would come."

He thought she was strange, but in a good way. She tugged at his sleeve and bobbed to the music some more. "Care to dance with me again?" she asked. His smile was all she needed for confirmation.

They danced with beer bottles in hand, Monica laughing gleefully, John throwing back glances at Gibson and not letting Monica drag him more than five feet away from the boy.


	12. Chapter 12

After a few minutes with John, she took another drink from the bottle and gave it to John. "I'm trading you out," she said, and motioned to Gibson to join her. He shook his head.

"Up," she said, standing before him, holding out a hand. He reluctantly stood.

"I can't dance."

"And yesterday you couldn't swim either, remember? It's easy." She handed John his Coke bottle and received a look of uncertainty. "Watch, John," she said, remembering too late not to use his name, and whispering an apology from her smiling mouth.

_Just listen_, she told Gibson. _Find the beat. _She took one of his hands in hers and had him hold onto her arm with the other. _Move your hands like this_, she explained, waving his hand around in circles to the rhythm. _Now feet… it's just a little shuffle, nothing more._ He proved to be completely graceless, but found it reassuring that even in Monica's head she did not seem to care. _Left foot, right foot, right foot, left foot_, she thought loudly and on beat. Within a few minutes, she had him dancing.

_Now, arm up._ She walked in a circle around him, holding on to his hand. They danced through the next song, as well, and she even managed to get a few half smiles out of him. She gave John a nod of her head and he walked up. "I think that's my cue to break in. Sorry, kid."

The evening grew long, but they filled it with more dancing, dinner from a food vendor who brought his cart to the door, and even shot a few rounds of pool on an ancient, worn table. "You look like you're starting to fade," said John after sinking the eight ball. "We should head home and sleep."

She had grown quiet during the last game, eventually handing over her cue to Gibson, who was learning to shoot pool that night. "I think that's a good idea," she answered, seeming somewhat distracted.

They nodded their goodbyes to their companions for the evening and stepped out into the dry, warm summer night. Gibson headed straight for the TV and Monica went into the bedroom, leaving John unsure of what to do, so he simply sat next to the boy without a word.

Monica stepped out a few minutes later and headed to the balcony, which overlooked a narrow dirt path of an alley. It took John several surreptitious glances to ascertain that she was smoking, a habit that he was sure she'd given up nearly a year ago. He kept trying to watch whatever show it was that Gibson had settled on and tried to raise some small talk, though he continually failed at picking any subject eliciting more than a three words response. His eyes lingered longer and longer on Monica's figure. Her back was towards them and she held her free hand across her body, her hand tightly holding on to her side, while her smoking hand rose only when she needed to take a drag – otherwise it was wrapped around her as well.

He was concerned by her sudden change in behavior. Wanting to be alone was not something he associated with her, and certainly not blocking them out entirely. Her hands began to take alternate trips to her face and he turned to Gibson to ask if she was crying.

The boy looked at him with a blank expression. It didn't matter what he said, he knew that John was already about to go out and check on her. He slid the sliding door open and stepped out beside her. She wiped away a few tears, but didn't look up at him.

"You ok?" he asked.

She took a shaky drag of her cigarette and shrugged her shoulders.

"Where did you get the cigarettes?"

"At the bar," she said in a voice that cracked just a little.

"Did you want to talk?" he asked, feeling helpless. She only shrugged again. He felt like he should do something, put his arm around her at the very least, but he still felt a little uneasy with openly displaying any signs of affection. They stood in silence as she finished her cigarette. She stubbed it out on the railing and flicked it into the alley below. Then she looked at him for the first time. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, and her cheeks were wet from tears.

"Monica," he said with concern, finding it suddenly easy to wrap her into his arms. "Hey, what's wrong? What's going on?" She cried a little harder as he held her. When she began to calm again, he pulled way and held her by her shoulders, looking desperately into her eyes. "Tell me what's wrong. Is it me? Did I do something wrong? If I did, ya gotta tell me. I'm out of practice, Mon."

"No, you're fine. It's just… it's stupid really," she said, wiping away her tears and trying to smile. "I just miss my mother."

"Ah, Monica," he said, pulling her into another hug, which triggered more tears, "That's not stupid. She's your mother, of course you're going to miss her. It's not easy leaving behind your family. Gibson and I would be feeling pretty miserable if we'd just had to say goodbye to our mothers for an unknown length of time."

"But what if I never see her again? What if we have to stay hidden for twenty years?"

"Don't worry about things we can't predict. And we'll find a way to get you back to see her, ok?"

"The craziest thing though is that half the time I'm with her, she's driving me crazy with her nagging and lecturing. God, why can't I stop crying?"

"You just need to get it all out. You'll feel better when you do. And you should get some sleep."

"I don't really want to leave where I'm at right now."

He smiled to himself. "I don't particularly want to let you go."

"Good." Her hands reached up and took hold of the front of his t-shirt before her lips were on his. "Let's go to bed, John," she said.

"I don't know that that's such a good idea," he replied, ignoring his body's desire to give in. "I'll sit with you again, if you want, while you sleep."

Her expression was of hurt and pain. She bit her lip and tried to keep herself composed. "No, I don't want that. I'm tired of waiting. I've been waiting for years. I don't want to be alone tonight, and there's no reason for me to be."

"I'm just not ready to take that step."

She pressed herself against him harder and slipped her fingers under his shirt. "I need you tonight. Please, John."

This was his moment. He could either walk away from her and go take a cold shower, or he could rush into that which he'd wanted to savor for at least another week or two. The tears that seemed to continuously spill from her eyes helped him to make that decision and he pulled her into him more urgently, kissing her mouth and neck. There was definitely little blood flowing through his brain now. But there was enough for him to finally break away and look into the living room.

He felt his heart lurch. "Where's Gibson?" he asked in a panic.

"I told him to vamoose. He should be in his room."

"I should go check on him."

"He's fine, John."

He looked back at the woman in his arms, with her red-eyes and tear-streaked face, hair limp from the heat, whose lips tasted of tobacco and a hint of beer. She looked stunningly beautiful to him. There was no way he could say no any longer, to himself or to her.

He groaned quietly and rested his forehead against hers. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and romantically carry her off, but there were doors to walk through and lock up and lights to turn off. He grabbed his duffle bag from beside the couch and dropped it onto the floor of the bedroom and closed the door. She was already on him, undoing his belt and pulling off his t-shirt as he guided her to the bed and fell down on its creaky springs with her.

Where to begin? he wondered, his hands wanting to be everywhere all at once. She took advantage of his indecision and rolled him onto his back, straddling him as she started to remove her shirt.

"Hey," he said gently, putting his hands on her arms to stop her. "Slow down. I wanna enjoy this."

He sat up, keeping her on his lap, and slid her shirt off himself, letting his hands explore the soft skin on her torso, leaving kisses on her shoulders and chest that made her shiver. "Monica," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. "You didn't happen to buy anything else when you were cigarette shopping, did you?"

She held his face in her hand, looking deep into those sincere blue eyes of his. "If you're asking about condoms, you don't need to worry about them. I'm on the Pill."

He nodded with relief and pulled her head to the side to expose her neck, which he kissed up and down. He slid down her bra straps and reached behind her, snapping her bra open with one hand, and grinning with pride at his feat. She managed a laugh, but it stopped with his mouth landed on one of her exposed nipples. Instead she groaned and let her head fall back in pleasure.

He rolled her back over and divested her of her pants before kicking off his own. Her hands began to push down his underwear, but he dragged them back up. "Slow down," he said again. "Slow, Monica. We've got all night." He intended to draw it out as long as he could.

"I'm tired of waiting."

"You're not really waiting any longer. This is happening now."

For a long time there was no sound by the sound of their breathing and an occasional whimper from Monica as he tortured her with nothing more than his lips as they tried to find all the most sensitive parts of her body. Finally, even he could take no more and slipped off the black lacy panties she wore. Her eyes fluttered open and realized the game was finally progressing to the final act, and she ran her fingers along the waistband of his underwear before removing them.

She touched him lightly, held him in her hand. He wanted desperately to enter her and looked down at her questioningly. She latched onto his neck, pulling herself up for the kiss that said it was time and dragged him back down on top of her. One of her feet slid up the back of his leg, her knee against his side, and she pushed her pelvis towards him. He pushed himself into her and felt her nails dig into his skin.

He was in heaven. Whatever was going on transcended the mere act of sex. He realized that he loved her intensely. His entire body tingled at the thought and he could only hold her tighter. Nothing in the world mattered right now, not whatever it was he was supposed to be worrying about, not the squeals from the old mattress and metal bed frame, not the sounds that were escaping from their mouths.

Just when he was beginning to worry about how much longer he could hold on, she grew tense in his arms and voiced a few throaty cries, which was all it took for him to succumb entirely to his desire. They lay in one another's arms, sweaty and panting, slowly coming back into full consciousness.

His hands and lips had only just begun to lazily wander over their favorite spots when she started to cry again. He pushed her damp hair back and kissed her cheek. "Monica, I'm here," he said, not realizing that was the very thing she wanted him to say.

"Don't let me go," she said as she burrowed into his chest.

"Never, never," he said softly, trying to calm her.

She rolled over and pulled his arm tight across her. He wrapped his body around her, for it was the only thing he could do, and listened to her cry herself to sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

He heard a knock on the door and his name. His eyes opened to find Monica still curled up with him, her hair in disarray, and dawn starting to light the room. Gibson knocked again. John started to answer, but quickly remembered that speaking wasn't necessary. _Give me a second_, he said, and hopped out of bed, throwing on his jeans and pulling the sheets over Monica's bare shoulders.

"What's wrong?" he asked, closing the bedroom door behind him. The TV was on and he looked up automatically. It was a press report. A man stood at a podium, tears barely held back as he spoke. A policeman, a Federale, stood beside him looking fierce, while several other people of various levels of importance lined the wall behind him.

"What happened?" asked John. "He saying something important?"

"Wait," said Gibson. A name flashed at the bottom of the screen. Esteban Reyes.

"Is that Monica's father?" he asked, starting to connect the face of the man on TV with the one in the photographs from Monica's home.

"Something happen? Something bad?" he asked, knowing full well that it must have. "Can you understand them?"

Gibson shook his head. "Wait," he said again. Senor Reyes continued to talk for a minute more, breaking down from time to time. The Federale finally put his hand on his shoulder and took the place at the podium. John didn't understand his words, but he understood his tone. This man meant business. His voice was hard and cold and he spoke with venom. Then suddenly, on the screen, were their pictures. His face. Monica's face. Their names. Recent photographs. No images of Gibson or his name. He wandered if they were talking about him. Probably given to the Mexican government by the FBI. Any disillusions he'd had about being hunted were completely destroyed. There was no doubt now. His stomach dropped.

John didn't hear the door open behind him or notice Monica standing there, watching the news report. But she crept closer and finally dropped to her knees in front of the TV. "No," she whispered. "No, no, no," she repeated, over and over again until her sobs made it impossible to speak.

"Monica, what happened? We don't understand what they're saying."

"Mama," she said, just a second before a picture of Senora Reyes came onto the screen.

"Oh god," he responded. It clicked together now. He wasn't entirely sure of what had happened, but he figured he could piece enough of it together to get an idea. Senora Reyes was dead. They were suspects. All of Mexico was looking for them now.

"We gotta leave," he said. "Now. Gibson, get your bag. Monica, I need you to get up and try to get dressed, ok?" She wore only his t-shirt and her underwear. She also made no attempt to get up and move. "Monica," he said louder. "Let's go." She still didn't move and he realized that she wasn't going to be able to alone. He ran to the bedroom and started throwing in the clothes that littered the floor. He slipped his other t-shirt over his head and brought her her pants.

The news had switched to another story. But still she sat there on the floor. He took her by the arm and stood her up. "I need you to pull yourself together just for a minute. Let's get you dressed and into the truck." As soon as she was fully dressed, he kissed her forehead and looked at her intensely. There were really no words that he could say.

He left a handful of pesos on the table, hopefully enough to cover one night's stay.

They walked out through the wakening street and climbed into the truck. Monica sat in the middle, her fingers clinging tightly to his sleeve. Gibson looked forlornly out the window. John didn't know where to go, exactly, but there was too much silence right now to speak. The only sound seemed to be Monica's sobbing, which varied in volume. Had he been driving an automatic, he could have put his arm around her, but that was not possible. They drove out of town and started down a paved road, climbing higher into the mountains.

The countryside grew greener and more lush and he began to start looking for good places to hide the truck for a few days. They could camp in the bush again, as they had their first night after leaving her mother's. He wasn't entirely sure what kind of wild animals the would encounter, but he was grateful for the guns that they had obtained and smuggled into the country. He wondered if it might be a good idea to get a hunting rifle too, just in case.

They stopped near noon as the sun beat down on them. They all looked worse for wear; the truck had no air conditioning. He opened up their food stores and passed around some muesli bars and bananas. Monica rested her back against the tire of the truck, her knees pulled up to her chest. 

"You need to eat something," he said and opened up her muesli bar for her but she turned her head when he offered it closer to her mouth. He sighed and started to get up to go pour over the maps with Gibson, though he desperately needed her input.

"John," she said in a broken voice, "They said we were suspects. That we killed her. My father thinks we killed her."

"Hey," he said tenderly, "It's not true. No matter how they paint us out to be."

"But it's true," she sobbed, somewhat angrily. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have gone to see her. They wouldn't have gone after her."

"No one knows what happened."

"They're framing us. The sheriff said we forced her to open the safe and give us all the money inside. She gave that to me. She said my father would understand, but he doesn't. He thinks we did that. He think I would be so cruel to my mother? Why doesn't he realize that she was helping me? I just want him to understand. Why doesn't he understand?" John wrapped his arms around her and held tight.

"He will. He's in shock too. He doesn't understand because he can't even think rationally about the situation."

"My mother is gone." There was so much pain and agony in her voice.

He let her cry it out again, and finally had to tear himself away. "I need to figure out where we should go to lay low for a while. I'm going to look at the maps, but if you can think of any place where we could hide, camp out unnoticed. Someplace with enough cover to ensure that no one in a helicopter or plane flying overheard could notice us or the truck, that would be good."

She closed her eyes sorrowfully. "I don't know. I don't know this area well enough. God, what the fuck was I thinking, dragging us all to Mexico?" She put her head in her hands and he had to leave her there.

The maps showed that they were in a relatively unpopulated area. It was obviously mountainous and he hoped that further southwest he could find a decent campground. There wasn't anything certain though about their situation or location.

Back in the truck, they drove for another two hours. Monica had mostly stopped crying, though she seemed catatonic, leaning against him but not clinging to him any longer.

It happened so quickly he barely had time to react. They were going pretty slow – the roads were certainly no longer paved and the potholes made him nervous about the fate of the truck's suspension.

"No!" Gibson cried out and with an athleticism he didn't quite possess, managed to fling the door open and jump out of the truck, landing mostly on his feet. John instinctively threw the truck into park, and suddenly Monica flew out the open door after Gibson. At first John thought she was trying to retrieve him, but something seemed off, and he started jogging after them, and finally bursting into a sprint when she grabbed him by the arm and spun him around.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she screamed. "You could have told me. We could have saved her. Why didn't you tell me that they were coming for her? I wouldn't have left her!"

Gibson looked terrified. John tore Monica off of him. "What the hell, Monica? What are you doing?"

"He knew. He should have told me. He knew that they were coming, he knew that they would hurt her. Why didn't you tell me?" She was hysterical. "I just wanted to keep her safe. How could you?"

"I didn't know!" he shouted back.

"Bullshit!"

"Hey!" roared John. "That's enough. Monica, back to the truck. Gibson," he said, taking the boy by the arm, "let's talk." He dragged him a few feet further away and gave Monica a warning look that finally made her turn back to the truck.

"You hurt?" he asked. Gibson rubbed his arm and didn't mention that his ankle and knee hurt from the jump. "Look, she's upset, ok? Just try to put yourself in her shoes and think about how it would be to learn that your mother died from a TV news report. Imagine what it would be like to hear that and to think you could have done something to prevent it."

Gibson didn't have to imagine that. But he didn't tell John. In fact, he didn't say anything to John. He wanted to leave. He was tired of this. It had fallen apart spectacularly. Living in the desert in the trailer with Mulder was peaceful. He had Craig, his friend who had driven him to DC to help Mulder. Now he was stuck with these two. John didn't care about him at all, just about protecting him, like it was some higher mission. Monica lived in some sort of fantasy world of puppies, unicorns and rainbows. It was quite a shock to her to find that they wouldn't be so lucky. And then there was their weird relationship. And the sex the night before. He couldn't close his ears any more than he could close his mind. And he was a 14-year-old boy, for Christ's sake. Not a good combination.

"I'll talk to her, ok? She's just upset. Don't let it get to you." His words did not cover up the thoughts in his head, suggesting that he wondered too why he hadn't said something to them. But ultimately he cared more about protecting him than about whether Gibson had the ability Monica thought he did or not.

"Get in the truck," he said and then he pulled Monica aside.

Her eyes still flashed with anger. "He's just a kid, you gotta cut him some slack."

"My mother is dead and you want me to cut him some slack? Fuck that, John. Fuck him, and fuck you too."

"Look, I realize you just learned your mother is dead. I realize you're hurting. But I don't deserve that. I'm just trying to get us somewhere safe so we can all settle down and so you can deal with what happened. You need time and you need quiet. And maybe a little less stress."

She shook her head. "I can't do this. I need to get away."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I want to leave. You can handle this by yourself. You can protect him. I can't. I can't protect someone who let them kill my mother."

John sighed. "I can't do this alone. I don't want to do this alone. And I told you last night I wasn't going to let you go. I meant it."

Her eyes still flashed with fury and he knew she wasn't moved.

"Just get in the truck, ok? We can talk about it after we find a place to hide out."

"I'm not getting in the truck with him."

"You are getting in the truck. You're going to sit there and you're going to deal."

"I'm no sitting next to him." 

"Well, there's only three seats and I'm not letting him drive." 

"I'll ride in the back."

"Don't be ridiculous. There's nothing but a hard metal floor back there."

"I'll sit on blankets."

He wasn't quite sure what to do with her irrationality, other than to forgive it and let her have her way.

He opened the door to the back and let her crawl in. She made no effort to arrange any type of comfortable sitting space and instead curled up in the corner and began to weep again.

"I can't let you stay back here," he said. But she made no comment, only turned her head away from him. He closed the tailgate and started driving down the road again, going even slower than before as he worried about her being tossed and turned all around.

They made their way through another three hours of mountain roads, passing few other cars but several donkey carts and pedestrians. She needed to be alone, though. She needed to suffer. The cold metal was a solace. She felt completely responsible for her mother's death. Her soul had been ripped from her heart and she wailed, though no one in front could hear her over the sound of the engine and rocks and dirt being ground under the tires.

Not having Monica visible was probably a good thing after all, for if anyone out here actually saw the broadcast (and he doubted that greatly for there seemed to be a distinct lack of electricity) they would be looking for a man, a woman and a boy. Still, they were obviously gringos and more than a few people stared as they passed by. They drove through a small village that was at a pretty high elevation. Stretching before them with almost a clear view of the 150 miles that lay between them and the coast. There were dense hills to the north and he decided to head in that direction.

Again he drove up into the forest, following a paved highway that became a smooth dirt road, then one that was littered with holes, and finally into a road that could barely be called that, with just enough room to squeeze the truck through. Small shrubby trees raked their branches against the sides, but he kept driving.

"Anyone out here?" he asked Gibson.

"I can't hear anyone but you and her."

"Ok. Then I think this is the place." He drove on a little ways more before he found just enough room to try what turned into a fifteen point turn to get the truck pointed in the opposite way in case they needed to make yet another quick get away.

He set up the tents alone. Monica had emerged from the back, but had wandered off into the brush, apparently not frightened of snakes or insects or more dangerous predators. Gibson sat on the seat of the truck, the door open and his feet dangling down. He seemed almost to be pouting. John started up a fire and pulled a few cans out of the back. Dinner would be beans and stewed tomatoes.

He managed to talk her into coming closer to the fire. Night was falling and it was darker in the brush. She still kept her distance from Gibson. At some point after the food had been eaten, the tension grew thicker and John furrowed his brow. He wasn't privy to the screamfest going on inside Monica's head, directed at Gibson, not until the boy stood up and screamed back.

"It doesn't work like that!" he said, his volume shocking them all. He stomped off to his tent and threw himself a little too hard onto the sleeping back that lay on the hard packed floor.

John looked at Monica with confusion. He could barely recognize her. He followed Gibson instead and sat beside him. The boy wiped away an angry tear. "I don't hear everything. She thinks I can hear everything. That's just stupid. It's like getting mad at her for not hearing them when they were discussing us out loud. If I could hear everything all around me, all the time, I would be crazy," he said with great frustration. It was a sensitive topic for him.

"But you have premonitions. You can sense things. You knew Mulder was in trouble. And I read your file. I read what Mulder wrote about you knowing in the huge stadium full of people that someone was going to shoot you. You seemed to know the exact moment and trajectory and everything."

"Yeah, but it's not like every single time something happens I get a warning."

"So you didn't know that they were coming for her?"

"All I knew is that they were coming. But for us, not her. I don't know why they… killed her. I didn't know. I would have told you if I knew. I can't save everybody," he said, angrily kicking at the corner of his sleeping bag.

It struck John just then how young he was. It was easy to forget when he seemed so serious and had such enemies and abilities. Ultimately, though, he was a 14-year-old teenage boy, who was scared and frustrated.

He looked hard at John. "I don't want a hug. I don't want to be your substitute son."

"If you can read my mind then you know that's not true. I don't want you to replace Luke. But Mulder's not around and maybe you still need a father figure. I can be that for you. Not your surrogate father, but I can fill in for Mulder, ok?"

Gibson shrugged and John smiled. He remembered being a teenager himself and answering his own father with nothing more than a supposedly noncommittal shrug of the shoulders. "You just rest up and I'll go talk to her, ok? I'll explain it to her."

Monica had already crawled into a sleeping bag in the other tent, sobbing again for the loss of her mother. He slipped in beside her and she fell into his arms. When the crying subsided, he shared with her everything that Gibson had told him about his abilities. Monica listened without reply. She closed her eyes when she was done. "I'm sorry," she said aloud, knowing that Gibson would hear it in his own way.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "Everything's wrong. I just don't…" she gave up trying to explain.

Night came down upon them again and John left her to go to Gibson's tent. "I don't want to share a tent with you," was the response he got as he unzipped the door flap. "Just go to her tent and stay with her."

John was puzzled. He thought things were better, but apparently they were not. "I talked to her. She's ok now."

"I know," said Gibson with exasperation.

"She's going to sleep now."

"Whatever. You're just going to sneak off to her tent anyway when I fall asleep. And then you're going to wake me up."

John cringed inwardly (though inwardly was no different than outwardly with the boy). "I'm sorry we disturbed you last night. That wasn't my intention."

"It was inevitable that you two would do it. I think even if I couldn't read your thoughts I would have seen it coming."

"Well, sorry anyway. And I'm not going to sneak into her tent while you're sleeping."

"Whatever. I want my own tent."

"I'm here to protect you. I'm not going to leave you alone."

"Like you did last night?"

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not going to go anywhere. There's nowhere to go. But I want my privacy and you two want to be together." He handed John his duffel bag and sleeping bag, effectively throwing him out.

In Monica's tent, she opened her tired, red-rimmed eyes, but she did not smile. She wordlessly removed herself from her own sleeping bag and allowed him to zip his onto hers. His intentions were good; he only wanted to be there with her, to comfort her as best he could. But instead, she took off her clothes and got back in.

After a whole day of crying and screaming and not understanding, she was emotionally wiped out, blank and empty. She needed to feel something besides grief, and physical pleasure seemed to be her only release. She understood now why she had fallen apart the night before, why she needed him so badly. Even before she was knowledgeable of her mother's death, her soul knew. She was already being hollowed out. Now she craved him as a distraction, as a balm. He seemed to understand.

Again, John awoke with a start. It was a cry. Of pain. And it didn't come from Monica, who only stared at him without emotion. It was still dark out, but he managed to find his jeans. The cries kept coming, intermittently, and he realized it must be Gibson. He couldn't hurry fast enough. Out into the darkness he ran, flashlight in hand, following the occasional sound.

The boy stood in a small clearing. He tried to walk away, but was obviously in pain. John came towards him and heard something rustle near his bare feet. A scorpion was poised to strike and he jumped away, just in the nick of time. "What the hell? Did you get stung?" He looked at the boy's feet – he was clad in sandals. Another scorpion ran past. John could do nothing more than pick up the boy and carry him back to the camp. Monica emerged at the sound of the truck opening.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Scorpion sting. Lots, I guess. He's in a lot of pain, I think. Damn things nearly stung me too." He moved over to the boy and opened up a first aid kit. "Not sure what's in here, but hopefully we can fix you up." The boy was wincing from the pain. John was hurriedly going through everything, with only his flashlight to help him search.

She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Get some water and soap and clean it first. I'll see if there's any antihistamine cream in here. Get him some water to drink too." She looked at him, and he saw that all traces of the anger she'd felt earlier had vanished. "Are you allergic to bees or any other things that sting?" He shook his head. "How many times did you get stung?"

"Five, I think. I don't know."

She removed his sandals and inspected his feet closer, but other than tiny red pinpricks and the obvious tenderness he experienced when she touched his skin, there was little evidence of the attack. They washed his feet and counted up seven bites – two on one foot, five on the other, all of which were smothered in antihistamine cream. She gave him two acetaminophen for the pain, but he still seemed to be in near agony.

"He's going to need to be watched, in case he is allergic. I don't like how it's spreading up past his ankles. Are you out of breath?" she asked him.

"No." His eyes drooped. She inspected his tent and his sleeping bag and found them scorpion free.

"John will watch you for the rest of the night, ok?"

He helped the boy up onto his tender feet and walked him towards the tent.

"Gibson," she said before he disappeared behind the flap. "Don't ever try to run again. There are hundreds of things out here that could kill you before you made it a mile. Aliens are the least of your worries."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Nine: Settling In

They spent the next five days at their camp, Monica in her tent, grieving, Gibson wandering around their small open space, bored and on a constant lookout for more scorpions, John doing his best to give them both the attention and care that they needed. He would take the boy with him on short excursions into the woods, searching for a water source and keeping an eye out for wild animals, the submachine gun in his hands, the pistol in Gibson's with the safety on. "I'll train you one day how to use it, just not now. Don't need to create any noise that might signal to someone where we are."

The predators were few and far between – the black form of a jaguar slipping by 300 meters ahead of them, the distant roar of a what sounded like a bear, the clatter of monkeys coming from trees all around them. There was no nearby water source that he could determine, which was a blessing in that there were fewer animals to contend with, but not helpful in allowing them more time to stay hidden. He estimated that they would need to leave in two days, maybe three if they were more strict with rations. That wasn't going to be enough time for anyone to forget seeing their faces on TV, and he doubted that the story had been buried yet.

That night, as Monica lay in John's arm, staring at the darkness before her, thinking about John's warning that they would need to leave soon, while thoughts of her mother slipped in every few seconds, she suddenly stumbled upon something she'd forgotten for the last week.

"Oh my god," she exclaimed, sitting up suddenly.

"What's wrong?" asked John.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no. This isn't good."

"What?"

She flipped on a flashlight and grabbed her bag, hoping against hope that she was wrong, but when she found what she was looking for, she was only proven right.

"What's wrong?" John asked again, trying to see what she had dug up from her bag.

She held it out to him. It was a round plastic container. "I forgot to take them. I haven't… not since before. before she died." With that, her tears were triggered again. John pulled her into him and let her cry.

"I fucked up, I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to forget."

"Hey now, hush. It's my fault, not yours. You've had enough going on. I should have known that."

"What if I…?"

"Mon, we're not going to worry about things that haven't happened yet, ok? And I don't think it works like that, right? Barbara would forget sometimes too, but she said that the stuff kept so many hormones floating through her body that she didn't really, you know, ovulate. It took us five months after she stopped taking the pill just to conceive Luke."

"But what if?"

"I don't want to play the what if game. If something happens, we'll deal with it. Nothing's happened and it probably won't happen, ok?"

"How many days has it been?"

"Six."

She counted. "I'll know in three or four days."

"Ok. Why don't you take whichever one you're supposed to take for today and get back on schedule."

She nodded and accepted the water bottle he offered her. Sleep did not come easily for either one of them.

They broke camp two days later and started out towards the coast again. A tiny cluster of sod houses caught Monica's attention and she suggested they try their luck there.

A few large men rode past on burrows who barely looked strong enough to support them. The men eyed them suspiciously and did not reciprocate John's nod. A small group of children stopped their game and watched as they drove past; some of the older boys followed them.

"It looks pretty out of the way here. They might not know about us."

They parked the truck and headed into a little corner grocery. The woman working the till eyed them suspiciously. Gibson did not say a word, so it seemed that for now, they were safe. They picked up as many supplies as they could, which seemed to appease the woman – she didn't like them, she didn't trust them, but they were obviously rich and were buying as much food in one go as some of her customers bought in the span of three months. As she rung them up slowly (for she had to show her disapproval somehow), Monica asked about finding a place to rent nearby. The woman did not answer. Monica took out 50 pesos, about five dollars, and slid it towards the woman.

"My husband and child and I would appreciate your assistance in helping us to locate a place to live."

The woman looked her up and down critically. She ascertained that Monica was Mexican by the accent, she obviously had money by the amount of food they bought and the cash she so easily slid across the counter, and she looked like she hadn't seen so much as a basin of water to rinse her face off with in a week.

"My sister has a small house that she does not use. I could ask her. But I will not see her until this evening. If you will return in the morning, I will let you know."

"Is there anywhere we can stay for the night?"

The woman looked at the counter. Monica slid another 50 pesos across.

"I will close up early and go talk to my sister. If she is interested in renting to you, she will find you."

Monica nodded. "We will await your return in the square. And please, give our greetings to your sister," she said, pressing yet another 50 pesos into the woman's hand.

In the village square, which was just an open flat area of dirt and dust, the found a tiny restaurant and ordered tamales and ate in the cool interior underneath a rickety fan that John feared would fall on their head's at any moment. They stepped outside afterward and were beginning to wander towards the small church across the square when a small woman in a pink flowered dress and bright blue shoes came towards them.

The house was theirs. Her asking price was steep – obviously her sister had told her they were rich gringos – but Monica whittled her down and then decided not to pay until they had seen what they were renting. They drove the woman back. It was a good five minute drive to her house, and another five minutes past that to the unoccupied house.

It was certainly not a pretty sight, but it would do. There were three bedrooms, a large open space and a small kitchen in the back, with an afterthought of a bathroom affixed to the back wall of the house. There were only a few pieces of furniture. The soft curving adobe walls were all painted in a bright turquoise that was chipped in several places. Nothing had been cleaned in quite some time, and Gibson was quick to point out a scorpion hiding in a corner of one of the bedrooms.

"I'm not sleeping in here," he whispered to Monica.

But it was a shelter, and the woman finally agreed to a rent of just 1000 pesos a month, which was much less than her original asking price of 3000. For an extra 500 pesos, she would send her sons over with some extra furniture that they could use, including mattresses to go on the bed frames. Monica thanked her graciously and handed over 1500 pesos and offered to have John drive her home, but the woman waved it off.

They finally had their own home, and they were in a town where so far Gibson had been unable to identify anyone who recognized them. Senora Herrera, their new landlady was kind enough to include pots and pans in the delivery of furniture that her two sons brought over. They settled into their new life quickly and with great relief.

As they cleaned and set up their new home, Monica was being eaten with anxiety and a hint of eager anticipation. She was late. Three days now into the placebo pills and nothing had happened. But she was beginning to change. She had lost her mother, but the thought of having a child made her grief less painful. She began to smile again.

It was the next night, when she was four days late, that she thought she might mention it to John. He had been paying attention of course, but he didn't want to broach the subject, and he was hoping that there were other factors at work.

But when she went to bathroom, she realized that her hopes were in vain. She was not pregnant. She did what she had been doing for so long now, she responded by crying and sobbing. John grew concerned and knocked on the door. "Mon, you ok in there?"

She managed to get up and open the door. Her arms flew around his neck and she told him that she wasn't pregnant.

"I told you we didn't need to worry."

"No, I wanted to be pregnant."

This was news to John. "Monica," he said holding her face in his hands and trying to understand what was going on in her head, "There are a million reasons why it's a good thing you're not pregnant. You realize that, don't you?"

"But I wanted… she's gone, and I thought… I thought it was her way of saying she forgave me."

"Oh, Monica, of course she wouldn't blame you for what happened. But you don't need to connect this to her. You've been through so much, your body probably just stopped working, you know. That's all."

"I want to have children."

"Ok. But that's not an option right now. I have no doubt in my mind you'd be a good mother. I see you with Gibson, I saw you with William. You're a natural. But we have to keep Gibson safe, and until he is, we can't risk his life by having a child. I don't like that it's like that, but it is. At least we've got each other, right? You're happy I came to my sense, right?" She managed to give a smile through her tears. "Come on, let's go to bed now."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Ten: Los Angelitos

They found solace and solitude in their little house. The summer months were filled with illness as their bodies learned to tolerate the various microbes and diseases that inhabited their water, food and air. Monica fared better than the boys, as she referred to them in her head, and played nurse to them both. _In sickness and in health_, she would say to herself as she doctored her lover through every kind of ailment imaginable.

When their health was better, she would give them lessons in Spanish and Mexican culture. Gibson was hard to teach, for he would automatically pick her brain for the correct answers, so she had t resort to working on his pronunciation and giving him vocabulary words to learn and newspaper articles to translate. (They were all grateful at the inexplicable but welcomed lack of reference to them.) She bought both John and Gibson white cowboy hats to keep the sun out of their eyes and to help them fit in a little better.

She slowly came to terms with her own grief, but she did not recover. The unexpected loss of her mother and especially the circumstances of the death would forever haunt her and she spent the summer in a state of melancholy, able to smile and to find comfort in John. She did not speak often about her loss with him, mainly because she was still processing it herself, but also because of the sensitive subject of Luke. John was kinder and more delicate with her than ever before and she knew it wasn't just because they were lovers now. He knew death, he was haunted himself, and he gave her more space sometimes than she wanted.

Summer faded into fall, and the month of October meant that Dia de los Muertos was just around the corner. She tried to find the words to explain to them what the festival was all about, but each time she meant to broach the subject, she shied away from it instead. In the last days of October, she resolved to celebrate it herself, and hollered to John that she was driving into town to purchase supplies.

"Can I come with you?" asked Gibson, his eyes large and tinged with their own sadness.

"Sure."

The town was beginning to come to life with one of the biggest celebrations of the year. Everywhere they looked were marigolds and festive paper decorations and skeletons and special foods. Monica bought everything she could, going a little overboard, and urged Gibson to pick out something to represent his parents, which he did, quietly.

They brought everything back and started setting it up on a little table they brought into the living room from Gibson's room. Bright paper table clothes were laid upon boxes. The marigolds were put into vases and laid out all over the altar. She set out candles and a few sugar skulls that Manuela, the owner of the little store, had painted herself. Gibson set out his favorite candies and a bottle of Jarritos Mango – his favorite flavor. They had purchased little skeleton figurines as well. Monica laid out a catrina figure of a stylish skeleton lady to represent her mother, while Gibson had chosen a simple bride and groom to represent his parents.

"He won't like that," Gibson said when Monica posed a little cycling skeleton, complete with a ball cap. She had hoped to find a baseball and glove, but there were none to be found in their little village. She knew he wouldn't, but she also knew that if he understood Dia de los Muertos, he would appreciate it. It was just a matter of somehow explaining it to him in a way that made sense.

They had no pictures and it bothered her, but everything that she put up was in honor of someone she'd lost. A pink candle for a college friend who loved the color and a bottle of good beer for an FBI agent she'd worked with a few times and developed quite a comraderie with before he was killed in a head on collision. She would make mole poblano for dinner on the day of the dead, for it was her mother's favorite dish, and she deserved to have a plate of it left for her on the altar. Gibson couldn't remember what his parents liked to eat, so he decided they could try some of the mole too.

"I never really think about them anymore," he said, repositioning the candles he'd set out for them.

"That's what this holiday is for. You have to think of them and show that you miss them, but that you honor their memories. And you always have to remember the best times, the times that made you happiest. It's not a time for sorrow, which is going to be a problem for John. It's also, traditionally, a way of inviting the spirits of the dead to return for a short time."

"And the day before is for kids."

"Yes, Dia de los Angelitos."

"He's not going to like that."

John was outside, tossing sticks to the local dogs who found John's entry into the village to be the best thing ever. Monica went up to him and asked for his wallet. He handed it over without asking, but he was confused. They kept their funds separated between the three of them in case they were separated, so that couldn't be the reason. He had nothing else in there. Except a photo of Luke. Which was exactly what she removed.

"Mon," he said, following her back to the house, "What are you doing?"

"You'll see."

Inside, for the first time, he saw the altar she'd created with Gibson. He didn't know what to make of it, because she had never been able to discuss the subject with him. It looked vulgar to him, too colorful and cheap. He didn't understand why she placed that worn photo in the midst of all those candles and skeletons and bits of food.

"What is it?"

"Day of the Dead, John. Dia de los Muertos." She explained the basics and pointed out the figurine representing her mother, and the ones Gibson had chosen.

"And that?" he asked harshly, pointing to the skeleton on a bike.

"For Luke."

"No way. You're not including him in this hokey thing. Not like this."

"John, it's a perfectly acceptable way to memorialize loved ones."

"Maybe for you, maybe for our neighbors, but not for me." He took the photo back and stuck it back in his wallet. "Get rid of that stupid thing too, or I will," he said before stomping back outside, where he chucked sticks harder and faster than before for the dogs.

"Told you."

She gave him a bit of a smile. "You think you're so smart, huh?" she teased. And then she decided it was time for him to return to his lessons, which made him groan.

Before going to bed that night, she and Gibson made the final additions – a bowl of water for thirst and purification, a bowl of salt for hunger and purification, and bread for the food needed for survival. To keep out the darkness during the night, they lit the four candles at the top of the altar, one for Luke, and one for any other child they might have forgotten. The following night they would light candles for the adults who had died. On a nearby chair, Monica laid out another bowl of water, a bar of soap, a towel and a comb to allow their visiting spirits to clean up before approaching the ofrenda. Before they went to bed, they took handfuls of marigold petals and scattered them in front of the altar, for they could not scatter them from the gravesite to the house as was tradition. And then she slipped the figure of Luke back before crawling into bed with a still grumpy John.

"I understand that you need to do whatever you need to do to mourn your mother, but I gotta do my own thing too, and it's not that."

"The path back to the living world must not be made slippery with tears," she said, kissing him on the cheek and forehead. She brushed his hair back with her hand. "John, I love you, even if you don't understand that."


	16. Chapter 16

In the early morning hours, Monica awoke and found that she was alone in the bed. She lay quietly a few moments, listening for John, but the house was dead quiet. She wandered into the living room where the candle she'd lit for Luke was still flickering and providing the only light in the room. Dawn was still half an hour away.

John didn't seem to be anywhere, and her heart lurched. She lit another candle and walked quickly into Gibson's room, but he was still sleeping. When she came back into the living room she noticed that someone had been there. The petals which had previously been spread before the ofrenda were now in a thin trail leading directly to the door. When she opened it to see if John was outside, she found the bicycling figurine sitting on the front step. She called his name, but no one answered, though two dogs raised their heads and looked at her curiously.

She studied the ofrenda closer. No other candles burned by Luke's, though John didn't participate in the set up and had no idea which one was for his son. Nothing else seemed to be disturbed, though maybe the towel was a bit askew, and maybe the water was lower, and maybe Gibson had left four pieces of chocolate and not five like she remembered.

John was probably fine, she told herself. He'd been in quite a mood the night before, and he was just out for a walk to clear his head. Maybe he needed some alone time. He always got like this when the subject of Luke came up.

By the time the sky started to turn a soft purple color, she could no longer stand to wait. She knocked on Gibson's door and went to his bedside. He opened his eyes groggily and said, "I don't know where he is," before trying to go back to sleep.

Monica nudged him. "We need to find him. Come on."

Gibson groaned and sat up. He focused his mind, but he could not find John anywhere. All he could hear were Monica's thoughts. Apparently he was going to have to get up for real.

Once they were dressed, Monica dragged him to the car and they drove into town. The church bells were just beginning to ring. Gibson sat very still, his mind searching out every thought he came across. _Gringo_, he heard. _Iglesia_.

"The church."

Monica parked the truck and they walked in together. She dipped her fingers into the vessel of holy water and crossed herself, for it felt right under the circumstances. She'd already noticed John sitting in the last pew, so she quietly took Gibson's hand and slid in beside him.

John's hands were clasped in prayer and when he looked up, there were fresh tears in his eyes. She smiled and put her hand on his thigh.

People were filing in all around them.

"Mass is about to start," Monica explained.

"Can I even be here?"

"Sure you can. Just listen. And do what everyone else does."

He knelt and stood and sat on demand. He listened to the words of the priest and took in the entire ceremony breathlessly. The time grew long, and he was half antsy and half entranced. Gibson just wished he were home in bed.

They read the names of the dead children of the village, while mothers and fathers around them reacted, some with teary smiles, some with the sign of the cross. When it was over, Monica explained to him that the families were going to their children's gravesites to clean them up and have little parties. They watched the family trail out, some clapping and singing as they walked to the little cemetery on the other side of town from their own home.

They took a seat in the square. It was one of the few times they had all come here together for anything other than buying supplies.

"I dreamt of him last night, that same dream I kept having when they took my memories. It was so real. He was there, calling to me to come outside and watch him. I could feel his hands pulling me out of bed. And then I woke up and you were lying beside me and it was dark and he wasn't there. But I could still feel him around me. I went to your altar and I saw the candle flickering and then I noticed the door was open and all those flower petals were on the ground leading the way to the door. And on the doorstep was that skeleton on a bike. I just… I kinda lost it then. I came back inside and threw on some clothes and I just started walking. And then I was here. And then a few people went inside the church, so I followed them."

Just then, a young couple walked up to them. Monica recognized the woman as the daughter of the owner of the restaurant in the square. "You too have lost a child?" the woman asked.

"No, my… husband. He lost his first child, a boy, many years ago. It still pains him."

"He does not speak Spanish?" she asked, a bit surprised.

"Not very well," she said, looking at John and realizing that he was actually following the conversation.

"I miss my son very much," he said slowly, his accent still very thick.

The woman and her husband both nodded. "We too miss our son. He was young when he was taken back to heaven, only two. But today is a happy day! Today his spirit has returned and we celebrate. You will go to the cemetery?"

Monica shook her head. "No, we have no family buried there."

"If you change your mind, you must come say hello. We will return tomorrow to clean up the graves of our other family members."

"I know that you put the bike back on the altar last night," he said after the couple left. "I got up after you fell asleep and took it down. But when I woke up, well, none of that was there when I went to sleep. The door was locked too, so I don't think anyone came in with soul purpose of screwing with my mind."

She took his hand in hers. "John, sometimes there are forces at work that are far greater than we know and understand. Your love for Luke is very strong. It makes your grief that much greater, but it has a way of protecting you as well. What happened the last time we were in Mexico, that was a miracle. The old man said that no one had ever regained their memories. But Luke brought you back to yourself."

"Why do you think he… finds me here in Mexico?"

"Maybe it is our culture. Death is different here than it is in the US. We… embrace it, I suppose. It isn't just a sad thing or something to fear. It is a part of life. I read a book by Octavio Paz once, and he said something like, 'We are familiar with death. We joke about it, we caress it, we sleep with it at night. It is one of our favorite playthings and our… our steadfast love.' So maybe spirits are real and they thrive in a land where death is not shunned and feared."

John nodded, but he wasn't quite sure he agreed. Still, when they returned home, he quietly placed the bike and the photo of Luke back on the altar.

They spent a quiet day at home. Towards evening, Monica taught them the fine art of making the perfect mole. Peppers and spices and seeds were ground in a mortar and pestle, the chicken roasted in the oven, chicken broth and lard and even a plantain were added among many other things. John considered himself to be a decent cook, but the preparation for this dish made his head spin. Gibson was ambivalent about the chocolate being added.

But finally the meal was ready. Monica and Gibson offered up three small servings to the ofrenda, and then they were ready to eat. The boys were pleasantly surprised.

That night, Monica grew quiet again though she did not cry. Instead, she spoke of happy memories and talked about how amused her mother must be now that she was living in Mexico again. Gibson stubbornly bit his tongue, but upon prodding admitted that he liked it when his father would take him to the playground, and that he remembered his mother holding him in her lap during his first plane ride as they looked out the window together. He tried not to think of how his abilities severed his ties to his parents when he was still very young. Happy memories, Monica said when he started to frown.

They lit the candles again, this time as John watched, and then went to bed. When he tried to make love to her that night, she laughed. "You had a visitor last night. If my mother comes tonight, the last thing I want her to walk in on is that. No need to piss off the spirits of the dead."


	17. Chapter 17

The next morning, Monica pulled Gibson from his bed again. "We're going to see the cemetery," she said, as if this were a viable excuse for depriving him of sleep.

But once there, he did manage to lose himself a little. There were so many people, far more than actually lived in the village, and they were all so close. Their thoughts jumbled into a roar that was easier to block out. He took in the sights – colors and sounds, smells and tastes. Everywhere he turned there was something fantastic going on. Every grave was decorated with flowers and candles and treats, just like on the ofrenda. Music swirled all around him. He could hear a mariachi band at the far end of the cemetery, a boombox playing traditional Mexican music with accordions, and families all around seemed to suddenly burst out into song as they remembered a favorite of a dead relative. Food vendors waited outside the gates of the cemetery and his mouth watered at the smell of fresh tacos and flautas.

They brazenly wandered through the cemetery plots, mostly ignored by their neighbors of the last five months. The woman from the day before waved to them and the headed over. She showed them her husband's father's grave, and those of grandparents, an aunt, a nephew, several more distant relatives, and of course, the grave of her sweet Tomasito. She had them sit with her family, who were a little more accepting after seeing their daughter being so inclusive, and they partook in the meal they had brought to keep them well fed during the day at the cemetery as they cleaned and tended to the graves. It was the first time Gibson had interacted with anyone other than John and Monica for a very long time. He was almost inclined to think it was fun.

John was trying to not have fun. It made him uneasy to be so exposed and Gibson didn't understand, yet again, why he didn't just say something to Monica. Gibson rolled his eyes at him, quickly scanned the thoughts around him but found them full of memories of loved ones lost, and offered John a sweet roll.

In the evening, as they were settling down to dinner, they heard the sound of an engine from far away. "It's Senora Herrera," said Gibson. "We're going to have to leave."

John and Monica got up immediately and began to pack what they could. Their bags were ready to go, but they had amassed plenty of other supplies over the summer that they could take with them.

Senora Herrera parked her ancient Toyota and walked to their front door, wearing the same pink dress and blue shoes as when they'd first met her, complimented now with a dingy white sweater. "Hola," she said, in a voice that didn't sound very friendly.

Monica responded with a welcoming smile and invited her to join them for dinner, which Senora Herrera declined.

"My son, Alberto, he works in Acapulco, but he came home for the holiday. He says that you are criminals. I was not surprised by that – what gringo comes to Mexico to live in this wasteland, with no electricity, no running water, no comforts like in the U.S.? But he says that he saw on TV that you kidnapped a child," she looked at Gibson and had a hard time imagining him as a kidnapped child, "and that you robbed and killed your mother." Monica, or Rosa as she had been told upon their meeting, did not look like someone who would hurt her own mother. She nodded in the direction of the altar.

"I don't know what to believe. But Alberto, he wants to contact the Federales." She stopped there and waited.

John looked at Monica, unsure of everything that had been said. Monica did not take her eyes off of Senora Herera. She pulled some money from her money belt and handed it to her. "Thank you for your troubles. We will leave. We do not want to cause any problems." Five minutes after Senora Herrera left, they were all back in their truck, as many supplies as they had packed into the back, and on their way to a new town.

Chapter 11: A Peaceful Year

They chose to spend another month "in the bush," as John said. Camping was boring as anything, but as far as slipping away from the knowledge of the Mexican Police and whoever might be looking for them from the U.S., it was the safest thing. But by week three, they were all aching for civilization. Real beds, running water, electricity, foods that weren't just heated up in a pot over a campfire, these were the subject of fantasies and wistful conversations.

"It sure does do you good, though. I don't think you've ever looked prettier," John told Monica one night as they sat around the campfire growing antsy. Her hair was longer and straighter, certainly not styled. Despite her protestations, she seemed entirely at ease as they roamed about, still able to smile and laugh in a heartbeat. He and the boy just looked scrawnier. Shaving was a waste of water, so he was now sporting a full beard, while the boy just had scruffy patches of facial hair on his chin and lip and cheeks. Everyone was tanner. But Monica and Gibson were right, he decided. It was time to return, if possible.

Monica wanted to be in a real house by Christmas, and certainly in time for Gibson's birthday in January. "Your birthday's in January too," he reminded her.

"Yes, but I think he deserves some normalcy at his age. Me, I don't care. As long as I've got you, I'm fine."

They eventually decided on the mountainous area just west of Tepic, which lay to the north of them. They floated around rural villages and finally decided to try their luck at living in a real town with all the amenities they had longed for. The town of Jesus Maria provided them with just that. Electricity was spotty, but it existed. When they turned the tap, hot water would usually come out. Apartments were within their price range, though John was realizing that in another year or two, money would start to become an issue.

Their alibi came to them like a gift – the landlord mentioned that he had once rented a flat to a couple of writers who were researching the area. Monica jumped on the bandwagon quickly and exclaimed that they two were writers, working on a book about the people and cultures of the state of Nayarit, which seemed to be explanation enough for the man.

The strangest thing, though, that they found upon their return to civilization was the complete lack of knowledge as to who they really were. No one seemed to recognize them. Their faces were not on wanted posters at the post office. Newspapers and TV had forgotten them. They could not explain it, and they did not want to take it for granted, but they all knew that it probably didn't mean that they were safe. So they continued to move regularly, trading in their trucks for new ones, keeping contact to a minimum, and keeping their ears open.

All three were surprised to find themselves at some point thinking of themselves as a real family, not just one constructed for the purpose of hiding. Monica would yell at Gibson for having the TV up too loud, John would get after him for failing to keep his room in order. Monica and John squabbled over money and where they would live next. Gibson would get embarrassed if Monica tried to hug him in public, but he didn't mind so much when she would compliment him on his Spanish. John kept a respectful distance – he had really meant it when he said he didn't need a surrogate son – but even he couldn't resist a tender clap on the shoulder or a kind thought purposely given to the boy.

And somewhere along the line, things had finally clicked between Monica and John. He realized that waking up with her each morning set his day right, and when she wasn't there, his heart would jump, until he found her already eating breakfast or curled up with a book out in the morning sun. He laughed more than ever now, and found himself cracking jokes just to see her fight that smile. He didn't even mind her crazy ways so much anymore, and would sometimes listen with an open mind when she would talk about numerology, which she was trying to pass on to Gibson, or her feelings and visions. He loved her too much to doubt her or find her words to be anything less than sincere.

For her part, Monica had never been happier. Sure, things would have been nicer had they not been on the run, protecting a teenage boy who was being hunted by more people than they realized, and it might have been nice to still be in the DC area, living in his house, doing a job she had loved from the beginning, and having a steady, reliable income. But those were easy sacrifices to make when the reward was the man she loved. A year into their relationship and they were both still enjoying each other, in and out of bed.

By the time the next Dia de los Muertos came around, they were living in the town of Champoton, on the Yucatan Peninsula. The town was the biggest so far, and they found themselves a tiny little house near the beach, sacrificing space for the luxury of being able to play in the waves whenever the heat became unbearable.

John didn't mind the altar this time, and he even found himself helping to set it up. And without comment, he opened his wallet and pulled out the picture of Luke. Whatever had happened the year before was still inexplicable, and it did not happen again, but John found himself taking that day, Dia de los Angelitos, as a day to remember and to speak to his son, if only in his thoughts, as though he were there. Monica let him go to mass alone – she sensed he needed some time away from Gibson. He came home later than she had anticipated, having gone out to one of the cemeteries and watched other families decorate the graves of their lost children. His child did not have a grave, the ocean carried his ashes, and though he'd never told Monica, that was the reason he'd chosen to live near the water at this time of year.

He remembered what he'd had, a wife and a child and a life of relative ease and happiness. He thought of what he had now, with Monica and the boy and the happiness they'd managed to wrest from their circumstances. And then he allowed himself to contemplate the future. He still held on to the ring Monica's mother had given him. They had both long since quit wearing their cheap ones, tired of the discolorations it left on their skin. He'd meant to buy new ones, ones that were really gold, but it just hadn't happened, and he knew that if he gave one to her, it would mean more than just continuing their alibis. When he got home, she was sitting at the table, working with a very disinterested Gibson on Mexican history. He kissed her forehead and said he needed a little siesta, and waved off the lunch she said was waiting for him in the fridge.

Instead, he closed the door and looked into his duffel bag. Sewn into the seam, wrapped in a bit of cloth, was the ring. He cut it out with his Swiss army knife and slipped it into his pocket before lying down on the bed to think about what he was actually going to do. She came in a little while later, crawling in beside him, and curled up quite contentedly. It wasn't his intention to make love to her in the middle of the day, but she looked so lovely, and he had spent so much of the day thinking about how much he felt for her that he could do nothing more than to warn Gibson to go to his own room for a siesta.


	18. Chapter 18

She noticed as he made love to her that afternoon that there was something different in his demeanor. His eyes seemed more serious, he was quicker to smile, he seemed almost in awe of her, like he'd never been before. He touched her reverently, like she was a goddess and went far out of his way to ensure her pleasure. Their love making had certainly not waned over the last year, but he was making every day before today pale in comparison. She climaxed like never before, sweat dripping, a cry from her mouth despite trying to be quiet. He knew her completely, he knew every part of her like no lover before.

"I love you, Monica Reyes," he said in a whisper.

"I love you too, John Doggett," she returned. They felt like secret names, special names, only to be used in the most intimate of moments.

He fought the urge to ask her to marry him then and there. He wanted it to be more romantic than that. He wanted to take her off guard and surprise her, if he could.

The next day, while other families were at the cemetery, he suggested they go to the beach, for it would be deserted and they could have the privacy that they rarely got to have. They walked out, hand in hand, and came across a trio of men who stood on the shore, heads bowed.

"Their brother and friends died in a fishing accident," explained Gibson. "They have no grave. They come here every year. It's like you, with Luke."

Monica gripped his arm a little tighter and John didn't respond. Instead, they set out a blanket and sat down to enjoy the cool November morning. Monica pulled on one of John's sweatshirts and laid down with her head in his lap, and they watched Gibson as he walked along the shoreline looking for shells and anything interesting that might have washed ashore.

"Do you think he's happy?" she asked, sounding unsure.

"I think he is. He could leave. He knows that. He's got a good amount of cash and he's got some decent survival skills. But he stays. I'm glad though, because if he left I'd have to hunt his ass down." He took her hand casually in his. "And you? Are you happy?"

She turned and looked up at him with a full smile. "Of course I am. How could I not be? I'm here, on the beach, with you. And god, yesterday was amazing," she said, with a sly smile referring to their afternoon romp. "I think I could stay like this forever and be very, very content."

"Monica," he said, and as he used her name, she realized he was being very serious. "What do you say to being a little bit happier?"

"How so?"

"What do you think about being my wife?"

The smile she gave him started out small and timid and then grew large and started to waver as she began to tear up. She put her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder. "Yes, yes, of course."

He managed to maneuver around and dug the ring out of his pocket, and she watched him breathlessly as he unwrapped it.

"How did you…? That's … that's my mother's ring!" she said, with complete disbelief.

He smiled smugly. He definitely succeeded in surprising her. "She gave it to me. Remember when she wanted to talk to me that night? Well, that's what she had to say. She wanted me to make an honest woman of you, I think. And I do, more than anything, want to marry you, Monica Reyes."

"John, this is… this is perfect. I can't believe… you've held on to this all this time? How? I don't … understand…" She slipped the ring onto her finger and admired it. She clutched him again and gave him a long, thankful kiss. There was so much she wanted to say, but words were far beyond her right now. She just wanted to look at him, memorize what he looked like on this day, he eyes sparkling.

They spent a long time, wrapped in each others arms, content and blissful. Gibson finally felt it was safe to join them again, and asked if they could go get tamales from Tia Rosa's, his favorite place in the town, to celebrate. No reason why they couldn't.

That night, after making love for the first time as an engaged couple, she asked him how exactly they would pull off getting married, out here, on the run.

"I figure we'll just pull up to the first chapel that we see that feels right, and we'll get married there."

She laughed sweetly at him. "It's not that easy. Almost every church and chapel in this country is Catholic. We'd have to find a place that would be willing to marry us, since you're not Catholic, and I don't… well, there are certain promises you have to make before you get married and some of them I can't make."

"Like?"

"Children. They make you promise, if one of you isn't Catholic, that any children will be raised Catholic. I don't necessarily want to raise my children Catholic. I mean, if I had any. Which I'm not sure about. I mean, I'm not saying…"

He nodded. "And what about me not being Catholic? Or much of a believer at all?"

"Well, we can't get married in a church, technically. It's against canon law, but we can be married by a Catholic priest, if that's what you want. But I'm sure we could find someone who's non-denominational or something. Of course, we're totally ignoring the whole issue of how we could pull off getting married without revealing who we are."

"Here's what I was thinking," he said, "We come across a tiny chapel, small village. Not a lot of money floating around. Promise a nice donation to the priest to do with as he likes, in exchange for a real ceremony, using our real names. Maybe it ain't legal, but I don't think that needs to concern us after all this time on the run. And I just want to have some sort of ceremony. The paper ain't important. But the symbolism is. The ceremony is. I hope you don't doubt my commitment, but I want to, I don't know, make a show of it, I guess."

"I understand. Nothing could make me happier. We'll figure something out."

They were quiet for a while longer, cuddling, hands caressing bodies.

"Monica, do you want to talk about … having kids?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know that we should discuss the possibility, but I worry about it. And I worry about you, since we never talk about it. You know, though, if things were different, I wouldn't hesitate to have children with you. I wish we were in a situation where we could have kids. I see you with Gibson every day, and I know you'd make a great mother."

The subject made her melancholy and she didn't speak.

"We don't have to talk about it. But I know it means a lot to you, so if you need to talk about it, I'll listen. It's a delicate subject, and frankly a damn depressing subject, but don't ever think for a moment you can't bring up the subject with me."

"I know. I guess I just try not to think about it. I try to concentrate on the happiness I have right now." She smiled and snuggled into him, kissing his chest and running her hands up his back before kissing him fuller on the lips. He surprised himself by finding that he wasn't too old to make love to her, his fiancée, twice in one night.

Chapter 12: Hunted

Less than a month later, they peaceful life came to a dramatic end. They were casually deciding where they would live next, but no one seemed to be in any hurry to decide. Christmas was coming up soon, quickly followed by Gibson's 16th birthday at the beginning of the year and Monica's a few weeks later. Everyone was just hoping they could stay put for a little bit longer.

Gibson awoke from his sleep in a panic. He jumped from his bed and ran to the window. It was quiet and still outside, but he knew that something far worse lay out there, out of sight. The air was cold, for even here in Mexico, winters could get cold. He felt their presence more than he heard it. He grabbed his bag and his pillow and ran to John and Monica's room, bursting the door open.

"They're here! We need to go! Please! Now!"

Monica had been sleeping deeply and blinked with confusion. "Who? Who's here?"

Gibson didn't want to wait for them to sort it out but he also didn't want ot leave them. "Do you have your guns? You need to aim for the back of his neck, where the supersoldiers have their bumps. If you shoot him anywhere else, it won't do anything but make you sick. Hurry, please!"

The urgency in his voice surpassed any that they'd previously heard him express. Before the passenger door had even closed, John was gunning the gas and John was gunning the engine to its limits. "Away from the coast," were the only instructions Gibson could give. When the sun started to rise, John asked if they were safe yet, but Gibson answered back, his eyes wide and terrified, with a simple "No." They stopped only to change into real clothes and for occasional bathroom and food breaks.

They drove west towards Oaxaca, but still the boy seemed frightened. They headed north, skirting Mexico City. The boy wouldn't sleep, except in moments of pure exhaustion. In Ciudad Valles, Monica bought sever different papers and was astonished to find that there were multiple UFO sitings all over the country for the last five nights. "Look, they were there, in our town. 'Residents reported seeing lights flickering above the water,'" she read in Spanish.

"They know I'm here. They won't rest."

"So now we've got the FBI, the Federales, and a bunch of alien bounty hunters after us?" said John.

"And probably the U.S. Marshalls," added Monica.

It was a grim situation.

There was no celebrating of Christmas that year. It would be postponed, along with birthday celebrations and New Year's, until they felt safe. Most of the time they were on high alert, with one person staying up on guard.

Monica did what she could to make Gibson's birthday, which was January 1st, into something festive, but he was not in the mood, and the bag of his favorite candies were hardly a surprise.

"I think we should head south again," he said, his energies all focused on surviving.

"You're sixteen, now. If we were in the States, you'd be driving. Do you want to start learning? It would be good to have another driver."

He was both excited, though he didn't show it, and nervous. If anything happened while he was behind the wheel, it could put them all in danger. So he answered with a shrug.

She nudged him to try. So, at the age of sixteen, sitting on the edge of the seat to reach the pedals, Gibson Praise received his first lesson in driving, with John sitting beside him trying to keep his cool, and Monica sitting in the passenger seat, bracing herself between the door handle and the dash, while occasionally bursting out into laugher as the truck stalled or made terrible sounds or when in reverse instead of breaking. They stopped in a little village that night, fearing less the police than visitors from above, and desperately in need of showers and real beds.

While John was in the bathroom cleaning up, Gibson looked up at Monica, sitting on the other bed. "Thanks, for the birthday stuff."

"I just got you the candy."

"The driving lesson. That was… fun. And this," he said, motioning to the room they had rented for the night.

"Hey, sixteen is a big deal. I only wish we could have done more."

"No, it's fine. Until you came around, no one had really celebrated my birthday in a long time." He looked at her, as though he were incapable of telepathy and were trying to read her. "Mulder once gave me a dirty magazine. When I turned 14. He said I was a man now. I really just wanted a Nintendo or something."

She wasn't sure if he was saddened by that or not, if he needed to be comforted by Mulder's ineptness with teenage boys. Gibson shook his head.

"I just mean, this was nice. You're nice, to remember. And to… try. I appreciate that."

She smiled. "You're a good boy, Gibson. You don't deserve the situation you're in. One day maybe we can get you somewhere completely safe. Wouldn't that be a nice birthday present?"

"I'll never be completely safe," he said and then got under his covers, effectively ending the conversation. She kissed him goodnight anyway, wishing him happy birthday once more.


	19. Chapter 19

The first month of 2004 was spent running at Gibson's orders. His hackles were up, as Monica said, but they did not know from what. Reports of UFO activity had died down, but it could have been from waning interest in the media. They passed through countless police checkpoints with their fake documents and no one seemed to recognize them, but perhaps it was the small donations they continually made to help grease the wheels. They were all worn out, Gibson especially, for he could no longer sleep, so on edge was he to scan the landscape and any mind that he could find.

"You're going to wear yourself out," they would warn him. "You'll make yourself sick. You need to rest."

Sure enough, Gibson hit a wall one day, slumping in the seat against Monica. At first, she thought he was finally giving in and sleeping, but she soon realized he was shivering, and when she placed her hand on his forehead, she found that he was burning up with a fever. He didn't respond other than to groan and mumble that he was fine.

She made John stop in a decent sized town. If he was sick, they would need access to a pharmacy. They rented a room in a hotel, feeling nervous and out of place, but he needed to rest. She and John traded off through the day and night, monitoring his fever, forcing him to drink liquids, draping wet cloths on his forehead. During the night, Gibson's breathing grew labored and Monica shook John awake.

"I think he needs a doctor."

John listened for a few seconds and nodded. "It's risky. But I think you're right. He shouldn't sound like that. We need to be careful though, somehow." He rubbed his face with his hands, trying to wake up, wishing this was not happening. It was dangerous. He didn't know how they could possibly get him in and taken care of without some kind of alert being triggered somewhere. This is probably the break they were waiting for. But his job was to protect the boy's life, however he needed to do that.

Monica packed up the truck while John got him ready to leave. "Not the hospital," said Gibson, his voice raspy. He started coughing again, a thick, wet cough.

"Yes, the hospital. One of us will always be by your side. We won't leave you. It's not like last time," he promised him.

Gibson shook his head weakly and drifted into unconsciousness again.

Entering the emergency room, Monica burst into frantic Spanish. She looked very much the part of a terrified mother, holding back her tears as best she could, anguish written in her face and eyes. John couldn't follow much of the talk – it was too fast, and he wasn't up on medical terms – but he understood when Monica said "No lo sé." _I don't know._

"What is it? What are they asking?" He tried to ask quietly as they put Gibson on a gurney and started to wheel him down the hall. Monica wouldn't drop his hand.

"They want to know his medical history. But I don't know. We don't know," she said, starting to cry.

"He's always been healthy," John said to the doctor. And it was true… but only as long as they'd known him.

The doctor looked up at John and down at the boy. "Does he speak Spanish?" he asked.

"He can understand," Monica said, "But he doesn't speak it very well."

"My English," said the doctor, in English, "is not so good. But perhaps we will understand one another."

They wheeled him to a curtained area in a large room and began to poke and prod him, taking his temperature and his blood pressure, drawing blood and flashing lights in his eyes. Monica stood back and held on tightly to John's arm.

"How long has he been ill?" asked the doctor.

"Maybe 24 hours? He came down with the fever yesterday morning. The coughing started in the afternoon. The breathing difficulties began an hour ago."

"You did good getting him in right away. I do not know for sure, but it might just be the flu, or it might be pneumonia. We will try to get a definitive diagnosis and start him on the appropriate treatment quickly. You are welcome to stay," he said, thinking their anguish to be that of parents who were deeply attached to their child.

"He seems to have a unique build," continued the doctor, cautiously. "Do you happen to know what kind of abnormality he has? It might be affecting his illness."

Monica furrowed her brow. She knew he wasn't "normal" per se, but after over a year spent in constant contact with him, it really wasn't anything that she thought about.

"He's just… he's just the way he is. We don't… we don't think about that."

A nurse called the doctor over and pushed Gibson's hair to the side, showing him the scar on his scalp. "And this?" asked the doctor, with great curiosity.

"He fell when he was a little boy," said John. "Very bad. Many…" He didn't know the word for stitches, but Monica filled it in for him.

"Many stitches. Down in Guatemala. We couldn't find a good hospital, not like here. They probably saved his life, but they did a poor job of sewing him up."

The doctor nodded, but his curiosity had not been sated.

They worked on him for a little while longer, eventually hooking him up to an IV to help rehydrate him. Monica sat by his bedside, holding his hand, talking to him when he was awake. John spent his time walking the floor, checking for video cameras, which he found outside the doors to the ER, and studying the faces and body language of every new person who walked through the doors.

In the afternoon, the doctor came back to them with his initial findings. "Pneumonia," he said. "Complicated by the flu and his shortened chest cavity. His lungs did not have the room to develop fully. You probably never noticed this as his hip dysplasia makes it difficult for him to move and make strenuous activities difficult. We will start him on a course of antibiotics, in case it is a bacterial infection. Do you know if he has any allergies to penicillin?" asked the doctor, very much doubting that they would know.

Monica shook her head. Gibson raised his hand and touched the oxygen mask they'd put over his mouth. Monica pulled it down. "No allergies," he said, meaning in his sick state to help, but only making the doctor more suspicious, though the boy was holding on to the woman's hand as though she were his mother. The doctor had no idea what was going on, but it wasn't his place right now. He needed to treat the boy and get him well enough to find out what was really going on. For now, he needed to assume the best. They had brought him in quickly, after all, and they showed no desire to leave his bedside.

The sun had gone down. A nurse told John as he paced the waiting room that they would move his son to a ward soon, or at least that's what he assumed she'd said. He found Monica sitting beside the boy's bed still, sound asleep with her head on her arms, her fingers resting against Gibson's wrist. He pulled up a chair and stroked her head gently until she woke up. "I remember sitting like this with you when you were in the hospital after your car accident."

She smiled at him, still resting her head on her arms. "And I remember sitting with you after you were hit by a car. And … when you were shot."

He nodded. He wasn't sure what to think of that story. She certainly seemed to believe it, and she'd been visibly upset by what she said had happened. "Too much time in hospitals," was all he could think of to say.

"Indeed."

"They're going to move him to the ward, I think."

No sooner had he said that then the nurse came and started to prepare him for the move.

The new ward was big, ten beds, all full, with blue curtains that looked like they were in need of a wash.

"Visiting hours end at 10," said the nurse.

Monica panicked. "I can't leave him here," she said. "I've never left him before. I promised him I would stay."

"The other patients need their rest."

Monica sized her up. "Is there not a special rate I can pay to stay overnight?"

The nurse looked around. "I think something could be arranged. 500 pesos?"

"300 pesos."

"400."

Monica handed over the cash. Forty dollars a night was expensive, but it really wasn't something they could barter over. She would have paid a thousand dollars if the nurse had steadfastly demanded that.

"Only one of you can stay," said the nurse as she walked away.

"I'll stay," said Monica. "I can talk to the nurses if anything goes wrong."

He nodded in agreement. "I'm going to stay in the truck tonight. Watch the lot. See if anyone suspicious comes in." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Are you armed?" She shook her head, so he sat with Gibson while she went to get her things, and slipped into the waist of her jeans the small handgun she'd picked up the year previous.

"If anything happens, I may not know. Just do the best you can. Be resourceful." He knew he didn't need to tell her any of that, but it scared him, leaving the two of them mostly undefended for the night. If something happened, he knew she wouldn't be able to just grab Gibson in her arms and run to the truck with him. He looked at her, his eyes full of worry and fear. "You know, this is the first night we've been apart in, what, a year and a half?"

"Don't think about that. Our job isn't to spend every single moment together, our job is to watch over him, every single moment. That's what we're doing. And you'll be back here in the morning when visiting hours start up again."

He couldn't think of anything else to say and had to express all his love with a long embrace.


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: Finally, at 42,000 words, I hit a brick wall. I hate my plot. Apologies in advance for what you are about to read, and for the resolution I'm going to have to figure out tomorrow.

* * *

John came in as soon as visiting hours started again. Monica was looking not so well rested, sitting in a plastic chair by Gibson's bedside.

"How is he?"

"About the same. They've got him on strong antibiotics and he can't seem to keep anything down. Whenever he has to wake up for anything, it's just too much for him and he passes out again. I've never seen anyone so sick. But the doctor said this morning that there was nothing to worry about. Flu, pneumonia. It's bad, but far from life-threatening."

"Did he say how long until he'd be able to leave?"

"If he responds to the antibiotics, then he could be sent home in a few days. If not, it may take a week or more before he's well enough to even be moved."

"Poor kid," said John, feeling useless. He pulled up a chair and started to wait it out with her, but soon realized how exhausted she was. "Mon, you gotta get some rest. Go sleep in the truck. We'll trade off in a few hours, ok?"

She nodded. "Are you sure you'll be ok if the doctor comes around?"

"We'll manage. Go."

He was there, alone, when Gibson woke up for a few minutes.

"Monica?" asked Gibson, his voice thick and raspy, and a cough consuming him after he spoke.

"Shhh. She's fine. She's sleeping. I'm here now."

The boy fell asleep again, but only because of exhaustion.

John monitored the room, studying the faces of everyone who came in, watching them closely to see if they were anyone to worry about.

In the afternoon, his stomach began to rumble. But there were no lunch breaks or even bathroom breaks on this job. He could only sit and hope that Monica would wake soon, especially since he was beginning to droop himself.

She showed up with tacos wrapped in tin foil from a vendor outside the hospital and they ate together, in quiet, listening to the sound of Gibson gasping for breath and trying to not let worry and fear eat away at them.

The few hours in the truck had done little to get her caught up on sleep. She slept in the chair again, her head resting against the side of Gibson's bed, her hand holding his. Every time he moved, every time a nurse came in to check on him, she woke up. In between, her dreams were scattered and intense. Toward morning, she fell into a dream about supersoldiers. They were everywhere. She ran through the hospital, which sometimes looked like the one she was in now, sometimes like the one in Audrey Pauley's mind, sometimes like the Hoover Building. She flashed her badge at some and bade them to stop before she was forced to use her weapon. She would fire, but there would be nothing there suddenly, and she would be running through the halls again, looking for them. Then she saw one, standing over Gibson, her hands wrapped around his neck, suffocating him. She screamed and woke up suddenly, hoping that she hadn't screamed out loud.

Gibson was awake, looking miserable. "I want to go home," he said, a tear running down his flushed cheek. She sat on the bed and brushed his hair back from his forehead.

"We'll go home soon. Don't worry. We just need to get you feeling better. The doctors are taking good care of you."

"Supersoldiers. The nurse… supersoldier."

"No, that was only in my dream. You're safe here. We're going to keep you safe."

He looked bewildered. His fevered mind could no longer focus or keep straight what was going on in reality and what he was picking up from everyone else. She looked around the room and realized he probably couldn't control whose thoughts he was picking up. She couldn't imagine the nightmare world he was living in right now. One more reason to get out of the hospital quickly.

Still, she found herself studying the necks of all the nurses and doctors that came by. It was hard to get a clear view of anyone's necks, due to the starched collars on everyone. Scrubs would have been more helpful.

They continued to trade on and off through the day, with Monica pulling the long shifts at night. It wasn't until his fourth day at the hospital that the antibiotics finally started to work and his fever broke. He was slightly more coherent, able to block out and read others' thoughts at will again. He was weak, but he was able to get up to use the bathroom and sit up to sip broth, though such activities required hour long naps for him to fully recover.

The doctor was encouraged and suggested a release date in another day or two.

"First we need to check on his lungs and get some follow up x-rays. Just to make sure that everything is clearing up."

"Follow up x-rays?" asked Monica. "He never had any."

"Are you sure? I've got a note in his chart that says he was taken in when he got here."

"That's impossible. My husband and I have been with him the entire time."

"I can have a nurse check his file and see if that's a mistake. But I thought I'd sent in the request…" he started off in the direction of the nursing station.

"No x-rays," said Gibson, his voice still raspy, but a little stronger.

"It might be a good idea, just to make sure you're getting better."

"I'm getting better. No x-rays though. They'll take me away."

"No one's going to take you away. I won't let them take any x-rays, if you're scared."

He moved his head slowly to the door. "She's scared," he said, just before a young woman walked in the door, with a very familiar face.

"Yves?" asked Monica incredulously.

The young woman walked over to Gibson's bed and smiled as if they were all friends. "Bringing him here was a dangerous thing to do," she said without bothering with any kind of greeting.

"How did you know we were here?"

"Everyone knows you are here in Mexico. It's just a matter of tracking you down. Big game, almost, to see who will find you first."

"And you won."

She shook her head. "No, but I was not looking for you, I was looking for them. They found you a few days ago. I don't know why they are taking their time. Probably because the boy truly is ill, and he's no good to them dead."

"So it's them, the aliens?" she said.

Yves nodded. "And others. The aliens are not the only ones who want him. The very people that threatened you at the beginning are here as well."

"What should we do?"

"Get out, obviously. Sneak him out somehow."

"Can you help?"

Yves looked around the room. "I'm not sure. I'm trying to figure out a plan. We may need your friend's help," she said.

Monica looked down at Gibson, whose eyes were half opened and glassy. "Hey," she said gently, "You hear that?"

"Yeah."

"You think you're strong enough to get up and walk out?"

He wanted to say yes. He wanted that with all his heart. But he knew that he wasn't.

"We can wheel you out maybe," suggested Monica.

"It's not going to be that easy," said Yves. "As soon as they see you leaving, they will alert the authorities and it will get ugly. You're not going to be able to leave without paying, and as soon as you do that, it will trigger a completely different alarm."

"Then how?"

"It depends on how close they are. I haven't seen them, but they must be here. I'll slip back in during the night. We'll get him out. Then you'll need to get far, far away."

"How far away?"

"I would suggest leaving the country for a while."

"They aren't watching the borders for us?"

"There are ways to get around that. A nice boat ride during the night that might just put you on a beach in Guatemala by morning."

"Why are you helping us?"

"Why wouldn't I?" she asked, rather cockily. "I need to leave. Don't let them take him anywhere. Keep him here, even if you have to pull out some hysterics."

With that, she walked briskly out of the room. Monica looked down at Gibson.

"They're going to help us," he said and then closed his eyes for another long nap.

The doctor returned almost immediately after Yves' departure. "It looks like you were right. But we still need x-rays to make sure the pneumonia is clearing up."

"No," said Monica, rather boldly. "He's obviously doing better."

"It won't take very long at all. We'll have him back to you in half an hour."

"No. He's not leaving. And besides, I'm not sure how we're going to afford any extras at this point."

He made a note in Gibson's chart and walked off without a word.

She wished Gibson were awake so that he could tell her what was in the doctor's mind.

John came in soon after, walking, but trying to look like he wasn't rushing. "We've got a problem."

"Did you see Yves? She was here."

He nodded. Obviously that was what was bothering him. "Do you know why? Did she talk to you?"

"She warned us to leave. But she said she'd help."

"How?"

"She didn't say, but she said we might need your help."

"I think I saw that boy hanging around too. Jimmy, was it?"

"She didn't mention that. I don't know why she brought him. He would stick out like a sore thumb."

"I think they're a team now. Kinda like you and me," he said, implying something more.

They sat around until the night nurse kicked him out. An hour passed. Then another. And another. Monica was starting to worry. She wanted to get this over with.

Yves walked into the room wearing a nurse's uniform that looked a little too big for her. Monica immediately realized that there was a poor unconscious nurse tucked away somewhere who would wake up very frightened. Yves was not beyond using force.

She pushed a wheelchair up to the bed. They woke Gibson, removed his IV line, and managed between the two of them to get Gibson into the chair. Yves poked her head out and looked down the hall. "This way," she said.

They went down the corridor and turned into a small exam room, where Jimmy sat waiting, wearing a white doctor's coat and sporting a brown dye job, a slightly comical mustache and a fake tan. He smiled goofily. "Well, what have we here? You, young man, need to get dressed. I have just the thing for you." He produced a set of Gibson's clothes. "Lady's, I think the young man needs some privacy." They turned around and Jimmy helped to dress him.

Had he not been sitting in a wheelchair, his face pale and eyelids heavy, slightly slumped over from lack of strength, one might not have noticed how sick he was.

"How are we going to get him out?"

"Through the back door."

She still didn't know how. They were on the second floor. She was pretty sure the back door led only to the parking lot and that there were basic security cameras monitoring all entrances.


	21. Chapter 21

"Of course, there are risks," said Yves, condescendingly. "Life is full of risks. But you've gotten yourself in between a rock and a hard place. There is no way out that doesn't involve risk. Taking the boy in the first place was a risk. Leaving him at their mercy would have been a risk. Coming to Mexico was a risk. Leaving the country will be a risk. All you can do, all anyone does at any moment, is to chose the less risky option." She stopped being philosophical and knelt down in front of Gibson.

"Hey there. We're going to need your help, ok? Until we can get you out of here, we need you to stay awake and focus on what's going on around you. Do you think you can do that?"

Gibson nodded. He knew very well what it was like to push himself beyond his physical abilities.

Down the halls they went, slipping into corridors or unoccupied rooms whenever Gibson gave them the word that someone was coming. After they made it down the elevator safely, Yves nodded at Jimmy. "Work your magic," she said.

"Hasta la huego," he said and skipped down the hall rather happily. They never did learn what magic it was he worked, but they were then able to walk out the back door, where John was already waiting. Yves piled in with them, which made it more than a little cozy.

"I will stay only until we reach my car, which is just a little further up the road." She handed them a new set of passports, up to date in terms of American security measures, all thanks to Jimmy. "He's spent the better part of the last two years studying with Lone Gunmen allies. I think one day he will make them proud." She wasn't able to fully hide her smile. "For now, though, you need to leave Mexico. Head down south along 200. Just before you get to the Guatemalan border, head west through the town of Alvaro Obregon and do not stop until you hit the coastal town of Barra de San Jose. There is a man by the name of Mario who will help you charter a boat for Guatemala."

"That's not his name," said Gibson, falling into a short coughing spell.

"You can trust him. He works with us now."

"Who?" asked John.

"Morris Fletcher," answered Gibson. He could hear John getting very angry in his head. _Oh hell no. Hell no. _He realized this was not information to share and leaned into Monica who wrapped her arm around him tighter.

"So Morris has proven reliable?" she asked Yves.

"Very much so. There's my car up head," she said pointing. John pulled up alongside it and she hopped out. "Go quickly," she said and then closed the door and turned away.

They drove towards 200, but when they finally reached it, John headed north. Monica nodded. "I don't trust him either."


	22. Chapter 22

"Camping it is, then," said John, and they found themselves back in an old haunt, the mountainous area they had escaped to after Senora Reyes' death. They needed some place quiet and mostly unpopulated.

Things had started to change in the last two years. When Gibson was awake, he would report that there were more people out there, and that their thoughts seemed to be preoccupied with marijuana. No one came near them, but just knowing that they were close enough for Gibson to read was enough to keep them moving pretty regularly.

Monica seemed strangely subdued by the change. It took a few days for her to finally voice her concern, but when a very young man, perhaps younger than Gibson, drew a gun on them as they drove by, his eyes glazed over and his soul empty, she found the words. "My country is following a dangerous path. I do not think this will end well." She was saddened and requested that they start moving south again. "The narcos are gaining more and more area here. If this keeps up, all of Mexico will be consumed by it."

They slowly picked their way down south, and over the next few weeks, Gibson began to show signs of making a full recovery. He was still listless, but now able to stay awake throughout the day and his coughing spells were no more. His terrors of being caught, the ones that had driven him to exhaustion and illness, were now allayed. When he did make travel requests, it was only to avoid military and police checkpoints, or narcos and bandits eager to rob them of the cash they had left.

It was late March, a month and a half into their wanderings through West Mexico, when John saw something he'd been looking for for a long time. "Hey," he said, nudging Monica. "Look at that."

A little chapel sat perched atop a dusty hill overlooking a barren landscape dotted with a few ramshackle huts. "What do you say, Monica?"

"I say that it may not even be in use."

They drove into the village, attracting the attention of the villagers who gave them steely unwelcomed looks. There wasn't much in the way of roads and certainly none leading up to the chapel, so John parked the truck and locked it up tight.

Gibson looked around. "They don't want us here."

"They don't look like the type that want anyone here," said Monica.

"True," he conceded. "There are people in the chapel. Getting ready for mass. I think tomorrow is Sunday."

The hill wasn't much to speak of, but it was still a challenge for Gibson, even with John providing a strong arm to hold on to. The priest met them at the door, looking more than a little perplexed. He did not speak.

"We'd like to get married," said John, still thinking it couldn't be that hard.

The priest shook his head. "You are not from here."

"We are not from anywhere," replied John.

"We have no parish," Monica said, trying to help. "We are willing to make a donation."

The priest looked at the three people in front of him. A gringo with a full beard, eyes bright blue, dusty wrinkles lining his face, and his hand locked tight with the woman. She spoke well, and he thought she might be Mexicana, but for looking very much a white lady herself. Her hair was long and in need of a wash and a comb, her clothes seemed worn though of good quality once. And they had with them a young man, with a stubbly beard and shaggy hair, much shorter than them who seemed to be in poor health, and who looked at him far too intelligently, as though he were reading his mind. He wasn't inclined to let any of them into the chapel.

Two village boys, who were busy fulfilling their altar boy duties by cleaning the chapel before the next day's mass, stood frozen behind the priest, staring at the white ghosts before them.

"You are Catholic?" asked the priest.

"I am, but he is not," answered Monica.

"I am not sure I can do much for you."

"We only want the ceremony," said John. "Nothing more. We don't need any state documents or anything." He lifted their clasped hands a little for emphasis. "I just want to be married to the woman I love."

The priest wasn't concerned with their love for one another. Their souls, somewhat. Obeying canon law, very much so. And the money still intrigued him. He wondered how much they would be willing to pay. The truck at the bottom of the hill, the ones a few villagers had circled to inspect, didn't look like much, but it was certainly more than most people had here. He saw the ring on the woman's finger and thought it might very well be gold and diamonds.

"The boy is yours?" he asked, less judgmental than John had expected. He didn't realize that the priest very rarely married any couple who wasn't already quite familiar with one another.

"No. He's an orphan. We take care of him."

"And why, may I ask, are you here, at my church, in this country, asking to be married?"

John looked to Monica for guidance, and she spoke. "We have lived here many years, in Mexico, but without a home to call our own. We have been engaged since last year, but without a home town, we have no church, and without a church, we cannot get married. My… my fiancé," she said, the word foreign o her mouth for she had never said it aloud, "saw your chapel and it resonated with him. He feels that this is the place where we should get married."

"And you?"

"I… I think I agree."

He sighed and felt compassion towards them. "You need rest. There is a town an hour south of here with a hotel and good food. I recommend that you stay there for the night and return here in the morning for mass. I will talk to you again afterward to see what can be done."

They thanked him and went on their way, finding the tiny hotel, and renting a couple rooms, each one less than ten dollars a night. They showered, ate well, and found quickly found themselves falling asleep.

When they arrived the next morning for mass, about 20 villagers were in the process of making it up the hill. After seeing the three gringos enter the church, another 20 followed. The little chapel had never been so full.

It was John's third mass and he was beginning to get the hang of it. He could understand what the priest was saying, for what could be in Spanish was in Spanish for the benefit of the congregation. Monica watched him as he took to the ritual, and shook her head whenever he did something wrong, such as start heading up to the front to take communion. "Catholics only," she whispered. She did not inform him that he could still go up, and with a simple crossing of the arms receive a blessing instead.

She did not participate. It made her skin crawl, even in this tiny rural church with all its charms. Had she been able to stand in the back and just enjoy the pageantry and watch the congregation go through their ritual, she would have been able to take it all in as charming and quaint. As it was, she did her best to keep a distance, watching and participating only so far as any religious studies scholar would. Gibson, for his part, sat disinterested at the far end of the bench and watched everyone watch them.

After the mass concluded, the villagers who had not left milled about, some uncomfortably close, to see them. Some of the children developed a game that involved sneaking up and touching one of the giants, while avoiding the small man who always knew when they were behind him. They spoke in English quietly amongst themselves.

"I like it here," he told her.

"Here as in the church or here as in this village?" She seemed a little on edge and he knew he needed to be careful. He narrowed his eyes at her, watching for signs of something that he was missing.

"Both, maybe. It's quiet here. No one really comes or goes. They'll get used to us. And I like this little church."

"You're a bit of a romantic, you know. This place has all the charm of any flea-bitten, son-of-a-whore village we've lived in so far."

He was a little shocked by her slipping in Mexican vulgarities, especially given that they were in a church. "You ok?" he asked cautiously, having given up on trying to read her.

"I'm fine," she replied, running her hands through her hair. "I haven't spent so much time inside a church in a long while."

"This really bothers you, huh?"

"A little bit. It's fine though. Maybe I'll go outside for some air. Gibson?"

John sat in his pew alone, staring up at the ancient carved Jesus hanging above the altar. Most of the parishioners had left by now, and it looked like the priest was nearly finished. The calm in the little church put him in a reflective mood. He wished Monica was there to talk to him, to answer his questions, but she was unsettled. It would be a good thing to try to get her to talk about it.

The priest came over to him. "Where did… I'm sorry, I never asked your names yesterday."

John hesitated. For two years he hadn't told anyone his real name. But he wasn't going to get married under a false name. And who here would find the need to go research their histories and run them through a criminal background check. "John," he said. "Her name is Monica," he added, pronouncing her name the proper, Spanish way.

The priest nodded. "You are perhaps running from something?" He had a little experience with fugitives, but most were Mexican, on the run for various misdeeds, and they would sometimes come to him for guidance or forgiveness.

"Perhaps. Can you marry us?" he asked, his grammar not quite exact.

"You have been baptized?"

John nodded. He explained as best he could that he had been raised Baptist, but that he had grown apart from religion as an adult, his faith slowly eaten away during his years fighting in the military. He did not mention his son's death, for he had long since given up any belief system by that time in his life. Instead, he found himself talking about the peace and solace he felt sitting there, and during the two other masses he'd attended. "I want to know more about being Catholic," he said.

The padre smiled. "There is a lot more to learn than I can teach you in one afternoon. Would you want to postpone your wedding?"

"No. I'm not sure about being Catholic, making that decision. I have not believed in a very long time. But I have seen things. I think maybe there is something big out there," he said, throwing his hands up to express himself better.

The priest began to talk to him about some of the basic tenets of Catholicism, watching John's face as it took in the information. Obviously this man was a natural skeptic. The priest wandered what he was doing out here in a country full of mysticism and magic, where mermaids lived in lakes and ghosts haunted the forests and strange sky gods of ancient times were blamed for drought and floods. The woman, along with the young man, had slipped back in and was listening to their conversation intently. She may have technically been the Catholic, but she was obviously more opposed to the idea.

When he felt John had taken in his fill for the day, he bade Monica to join him to discuss the possibility of a wedding. He explained that since they were both baptized, it was a sacrament that signified the union of Christ and the Church, and it was a sacrament of which they were the ministers. Eternal love, unity, covenants, all this made sense to John, and he squeezed her hand.

"And will you be able to promise that all children of this union," continued the priest, "will be brought up in the Catholic Church."

"I'm ok with that," said John.

"He's asking me," she said, her Catholicism a heavy burden she wanted desperately to shrug off. "And I… I can't make that promise. I don't know that I want our children, should we have any, to be brought up as I was."

The priest took this news as grave. "I do not know how many exceptions I can make to allow this wedding to proceed. The children need to be raised in the church."

John studied Monica's face. "We're not young," he said to the priest, "and to bring a child into the life we lead would not be wise. But if there are children, I see no harm in letting them participate in their mother's religion. Monica?"

"I don't know…" She was obviously struggling with her conscience. "If you wanted to raise these hypothetical children in the church, John, I… I would allow it."

It was the closest the priest was going to get. He'd never imagined himself presiding over a union between a Catholic and a non-Catholic in which the non-Catholic was the most desirous of the future children's Catholic upbringing. Perhaps this woman was lost to the fold, but the man by her side might have found his way to eternal salvation. Perhaps he could bring her back. He would remember to pray for both their souls before the wedding.

So it was decided. The priest had a large flock to maintain and would move to his next village on Wednesday. The wedding would be Tuesday. He would spend another few hours with John in counsel, though Monica had chosen to forgo confession, which saddened him. Neither would discuss the boy, or even reveal his name, but the priest warned them it would be necessary before the ceremony. "How old are you, my son?" he asked.

"18," replied Gibson, at Monica's request. 16 was too young to be a witness and she had very little concern for the rules and regulations of the church. Gibson knew them better than anyone else at this moment, and he deserved to be part of the ceremony. The woman who cared for the church's upkeep while the padre was out of town would stand in as the second witness. There would be no one else but the five of them.

They spent Monday morning in the town, trying to prepare. She had no attendant and so did her best to ready herself alone. A decent haircut was easily procured, and makeup could be found with ease. John had suggested she buy a wedding dress, but she rejected the idea as preposterous and chose instead to buy a new pair of jeans and a simple linen shirt. She wanted with all her heart to have the perfect wedding, but grand shows were out of place in their lives.

John and Gibson tidied themselves up equally, visiting a barber shop and picking out new clothes. Money was not quite a problem yet – they still had roughly $20,000 between the three of them – but catastrophes could come at any moment. Still, on his wedding day he wanted to spare no expense, arranging for a prepared meal from a restaurant and upgrading their hotel to the one across town, which had the added bonus of individual bathrooms, rather than the community one they'd been sharing with the hotel guests at their current location. Such were the luxuries they could allow themselves.

At lunch, they met up again and went to the jeweler's to buy John a ring. He wanted nothing fancy, but at the same time, he didn't want the simple band of gold that he had worn in his first marriage. Monica pointed to one with ropes of gold around the edges, and rougher, unpolished gold in the middle. It was to his liking – more mature, more complicated. His satisfaction brought the first true smile of excitement to her face that he had seen all day, and he leaned over immediately and kissed her.

"Can you believe this is finally going to happen?" he asked her.

She beamed and fell into his arms. "Sometimes I wondered about you. But I never doubted this day would one day come."


	23. Chapter 23

A/N - I crossed 50,000 today! But this story is far from over. I have no plans to stop writing this story, every day, no matter how dreadful it gets, or how long it takes.

* * *

They slept apart that night, more John's idea than her own. Her dreams were vivid, but there was one in particular that caused her to wake up very early and with great trepidation.

She always paid attention to her dreams. Until she'd left her old life, she'd kept a dream journal, filling it out in the mornings as part of her daily ritual. Sometimes there were portents of things to come, sometimes there were reminders of her past that she held to her during the day, finding them oddly comforting. The dream from which she'd awoken was a memory dream. It was her quinceañera… but she was her current age. Her mother fussed over her, instructing the hair stylist to pull her hair tighter, make it neater, just as she'd done nearly twenty years earlier. The dress was confining, the shoes hurt her feet, all these details were more vivid than her actual memories, as though she were reliving the moment. And then her mother, who now looked as she had the last time Monica had seen her, stood with her before the mirror. She saw herself as the 15-year-old girl she'd once been. "Beautiful, Monica," said her mother with maternal pride and admiration heavy in her voice. "A woman has only two days in her life when she must be a princess, her quinceañera and her wedding day." The words echoed in her mind's ear when she awoke.

Her shirt and jeans were already laid out and she knew that it was all wrong. She owed it to her mother, to herself, and most especially to John, whom she had left on his own during all this wedding business. So, she threw on the clothes she'd planned to wear that afternoon and knocked on his door. He greeted her with a big smile and a bigger kiss. "Is this what you're wearing today?" he asked, completely entranced, which she suspected he would have been even if she'd thrown on a ratty t-shirt and some cut-off jeans. There was no doubting his love for her.

"No. Well, it was. But not now. I'm going to go and find what I'm supposed to wear."

He didn't understand her, but she seemed pretty sure of herself, so he let her go.

The stores were just beginning to open up, and it didn't take her long to track down someone who would be willing to get her into a wedding costume that day. An old woman named Isadora welcomed her into her home, which was also her work space, and began to fuss over her, asking where her mother was, who was helping her prepare. Monica found herself in tears very quickly.

"Beautiful, beautiful girl," cooed the woman, rubbing Monica's back until she calmed down and then offering her a Coke and a sweet bun.

"Today?" asked the woman. "You are getting married today? And you do not even have a dress?" She clucked her tongue and got up to look through her wares. While Monica tried on a few shirts and skirts in traditional Tehuacan style, Isadora called her daughter, Veronica, over from next door and Monica was subjected to a serious hair session. Her long hair, which was now a medium brown with sun-bleached streaks through it, was pulled into the perfect braid and then wound around her head a few times before being pinned and hairsprayed into place. She almost didn't recognize herself, it had been so long since she'd even bothered trying to fight the elements and the nature of their life on the run. Monica would have paid her double her asking price, but she refused to take so much money from the bride on her wedding day. Instead, she stayed with her mother, fussing over the clothes until they settled on the right outfit. It was a simple cotton shirt with a light, almost lacy weave. Along the neckline were blocks of dark blue, embroidered in shimmering black thread with flowers and birds. "I put your name and his name here," she said, indicating one of three blank lines in the center top square. The date – today – and the place, so you will always remember."

"I can't," said Monica, sadly. "No names… just… embroider it with something else, some design or something."

Isadora looked at her customer with pity, but did not ask her her reasons. She went to her embroidering machine and put a row of decorative zig zags and added a tiny heart in the center. This she folded up carefully in old tissue paper, along with a white skirt of two lengths. She sent her daughter out for a bouquet and handed everything off to Monica, along with her best wishes for happiness and many children, all for half the price she'd originally said, refusing the money Monica continually pressed into her hands.

The church bells were just tolling noon when Monica returned to the hotel. She was back in her jeans and white linen shirt, and still had no makeup on, but seeing her with her hair up just made her that much more beautiful in John's eyes. There were no words that he could really say to express himself, so he just looked at her until she blushed and turned away.

"We should eat something and head down to the village," she said, trying to pretend that there was nothing out of the ordinary going on.

After eating, she retreated to her room and began her solitary preparations. Thoughts of her mother rolled around in her mind, and she thought more of her quinceañera, getting made up with so many people around to bring in their own energy and excitement. She'd had her godmother and aunts and cousins and friends swarming around her that whole morning. She wondered where they all were now, going about their lives, getting married themselves some of them, or watching their own daughters get married. When her mind began to dwell on her mother's death and what they must think of her, what her own father must think of her, she cried again, ruining her makeup. Her family was supposed to be there that day, her father was supposed to walk her down the aisle, even if she hated the symbolism in that. In an instant she was down on her knees before the simple wooden cross that hung above the nightstand in her room. Her mother was there, she knew, somehow, in some way, and she longed to feel her arms around her shoulders, or brushing a loose hair off her face, or patting her cheek reassuringly. _Please Mama, stay with me today. I don't want to do this alone. Please let me know you're with me._

She knocked on John's door when she felt ready. "You changed," he said, somewhat in awe. She stood before him looking every bit a bride, in a long white skirt, the flowing white blouse with the traditional embroidery, her hair wrapped around her head perfectly, a little white veil tucked under the braid, and a bouquet of white, red and orange flowers. He touched her sleeves and veil reverently, afraid to touch her skin. "I don't think I deserve you," he said.

"John, don't say that." She pressed her hand to his cheek and he covered it with his own.

"You are amazing, though. I mean, look at you. You look like… like a princess."

She wrapped her arms around him. "Gracias," she said. "Gracias, gracias."

He did feel inadequate, standing there in just a pair of slacks, a dress shirt and a tie, which was pretty much the same thing Gibson was wearing. He pulled out of her embrace, holding her hands and admiring her. "I think I'm a very, very lucky man today."

In the village, when they stepped out of their truck dressed in their wedding finery, the villagers took notice. No one knew that there was a wedding today and a few brave souls boldly followed the couple up the hill to the chapel, standing at the open door and looking in, trying to figure out what in the world was going on.

Before the priest could begin his preparations, Monica asked for the rite of confession. He nodded and directed her to the small room in the back where he conducted confession. He made the sign of the cross over her and gave her a blessing. She knelt down in prayer, awkward but determined.

"Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been 24 years since my last confession. These are my sins." She swallowed and began, starting with John and living in so-called sin with him, and continuing back through Brad and the seven other men she'd slept with since her last confession. She hesitated, but found the voice to mention Ellen, the girl she'd had a relationship with for a short while at Brown. She spoke of her career as an FBI agent in the States and how many people against whom she'd had to use deadly force. Her difficulties with church theology, her inability to fully believe in some of the church's teachings, her total disagreement with some of it, all this came out too. He bade her to keep going as they neared nearly an hour, and he coaxed from her everything, even little lies that she'd forgotten over the years and moments of hatred and anger she'd felt towards others. "For these and all the other sins in my life, I am sorry," she finally said.

It was an exhausting ordeal, but he assigned her a penance much smaller than she deserved and told her to live out the sacrament of marriage in godliness. He seemed to recognize that accepting her actions as sins was a penance in itself. She recited the act of contrition perfectly and he gave her absolution, after which she began to relax.

When they walked back into the chapel, they were met with a crowd. Almost everyone in the village had now made it up the hill and had taken seats in the pews. John was by her side in a second. "I don't know what to do," he said. "Gibson says they feel entitled to be here and that we're never going to get rid of them."

She looked out at them, and they looked back at her expectantly. Some even smiled, and she could feel ripples of excitement from them. This was obviously the greatest entertainment they'd had in a while. "Let them stay. It's forty people from a tiny village. They just want to watch."

"We can't have him say our names in front of them."

She placed her arm on his. "We can and we will. Perhaps some higher power wants it this way. For one day, John, finally, we get to be ourselves in a room full of people."

The priest directed them to the altar where a set of prie dieus had been positioned. Monica crossed herself and genuflected before kneeling. Gibson stood to the side, rings in his pocket, beside an old woman bursting with pride at being selected to take part in this bizarre event. The priest made the sign of the cross over the entire congregation and then began to lead everyone in a recitation that everyone but John seemed to know, not that he cared much. There were prayers and readings from the bible, and the congregation kept talking in response, but to John it was all just a blur of mystery to him.

Then the Padre spoke about marriage, about their particular marriage, being that he was not Catholic. Then he spoke their names, names that they had not even said themselves until talking to the priest, names that they had not heard from others' lips in years.

"John Doggett and Monica Reyes, have you come here freely and without reservation to give yourselves to one another in marriage."

"Si," said John.

"Si, Padre," replied Monica.

"Will you love and honor one another as man and wife for the rest of your lives?"

They spoke to the affirmative.

"Will you accept children lovingly from God and bring them up according to the law of Christ and his Church?"

John hadn't realized that this would be in the ceremony. Monica looked at him as he hesitated, and he could feel the entire congregation waiting, so he had no choice but to respond with a yes. Monica did as well, though much quicker.

The priest nodded to the Gibson and the old woman. They hadn't discussed this, Gibson and the priest, so it spooked him when the young man took the cord that sat on a little table near them and brought it over, and the priest again felt ill at the thought that he was reading his mind. Gibson placed the cord over John's head, twisted it once, and laid the other section over Monica's head, so that it joined them in a figure eight. Monica touched the lazo delicately and looked at John with tears in her eyes.

They were asked to join their right hands. The priest asked him if he would take this woman to love, honor, comfort, and some other stuff that he didn't quite catch, but he knew his answer, of course, beforehand.

"Si, lo haré," he said, as Monica had taught him.

He asked a similar question of her, and she spoke with great emotion the same words. "Si, lo haré." She grasped his hand tightly and felt wonderfully faint.

Gibson stepped forward again, presenting the rings to the priest who placed them on a small tray over which he made the sign of the cross. He held it out to John, who took the ring Senora Reyes had given him two years earlier.

Did he give this ring freely and as a sign of his pure and sincere love, asked the priest, before continuing on about sacred vows that were symbolized by the ring. Si, he answered, Si, Padre. He took Monica's left hand in his and slid the ring onto her finger, slowly, memorizing every moment, the feel of her fingers in his palm, the way the ring rested against her tanned hands, the look on her face.

The Padre asked the same of her, and she took the ring from the plate, sliding the ring onto his finger, the first ring he'd worn there in a decade, and now the last ring he would ever wear.

The ceremony was far from over, though. The old woman, serving as the madrina de arras, stepped forward now to fulfill her main role. She presented to John a small metal box full of coins. The confusion in his eyes was obvious, and she did her best to hint that he give them to Monica. When he looked at his wife, she smiled kindly and held out her hands. Did she want him to give her the whole box or dump the coins into her waiting hands? He wasn't sure at all. He caught sight of a few people in the congregation who were signaling to him to turn the little box over, and he smiled in understanding, copying their gesture.

It wasn't a symbol that Monica liked, but then most of the symbolism in traditional Catholic weddings were not to her liking. Thirteen coins, symbolizing Christ and his disciples, were given to the bride to represent the groom's commitment to provide for her financially, and her acceptance of the coins meant she would take care of him in return. The sexism made her skin crawl when she witnessed it at other ceremonies, but today, she was willing to accept it as a sign of love and devotion that they were making to one another. She placed the worthless copper coins (for the little chapel certainly had no real gold coins to use) into the little pocket of her wedding skirt.

Now the padre stood before them, reciting another prayer that ended with him making the sign of the cross over their heads. Monica felt a rush of emotion come over her and she closed her eyes, sensing her mother's presence like never before. When she opened her eyes, for a split second, she could swear she saw her mother standing on the other side of Gibson, but when she blinked, she was gone.

She dimly heard the priest say that they could kiss. Their lips met softly, in a chaste, Church appropriate kiss that sent shivers down both their spines. The priest removed the cord and signaled for them to stand up, presenting Monica with the cord as a memento of her wedding. The old lady came forward to return her bouquet and Monica turned to leave, but realized John wouldn't understand what she was doing, so she motioned with a quick wave of her hand for him to stay. She walked to the side of the altar where an ancient carved Madonna was hung, her blue veil washed of its once bright color and the paint chipped. At the Virgin's feet, she laid her bouquet and knelt for a prayer, asking that her marriage be blessed. She knew she was supposed to offer the prayer to the Virgin Mary, but in her heart, she was asking her own mother.

At John's side again, her arm in his, the priest made the sign of the cross again, giving them his final blessing. They walked out of the church together, as husband and wife, with Gibson right behind him, and the entire congregation following. Their original plan to return to the hotel, eat dinner, and spend a quiet evening together didn't seem to be shared by the villagers, who were excited by the unexpected celebration. They sang and clapped as they walked down the hill, some calling out to Juan and Monica to come to their house food and drink.


	24. Chapter 24

Before they could do that, the priest called them back to sign the marriage registry. The book was full of Xs – judging by the signatures, the village had about a 20% literacy rate. They wrote their names – John Jay Doggett, Monica Reyes Doggett, and then handed the pen to the old woman. Manuela Sanchez, she wrote in a clumsy hand. Gibson too added his name to the witness line, writing it for the first time in nearly four years. Gibson Andrew Praise. It felt like the name of a stranger, yet he knew it was his.

John pulled out his wallet to pay the priest for his services. He'd rehearsed this with Gibson. As soon as the wallet appeared, Gibson popped into the priest's head to see just how much he was hoping for.

"Five hundred," said Gibson, in English.

"That's it?" asked John. Gibson shrugged. John handed over a thousand peso note and the padre managed very well to hide his surprise with profuse thank yous and a bowed head.

When they left the church to begin the trek down the hill, they saw the villagers were already celebrating – apparently they didn't need John and Monica there to start dancing and drinking. There was a flat field in the middle of the village where they held all their festivities and sports events. The children played there during the days, and the men gathered there at night to drink. Now, the entire population seemed to be out there, dancing to the sounds of an old tape being played in an old dusty stereo hooked up to a generator. When John and Monica approached, the crowd cheered and pulled them in. Everyone started dancing with them, for it was tradition that every man dance with the bride and every woman dance with the groom. Had they been a more prosperous community, they would have pinned pesos to the grooms shirt as a wedding gift, but they could barely feed themselves during celebrations for which they had months to prepare.

Gibson was tired and took a seat in a rickety metal chair nearby, ever under the watchful gazes of his guardians. Then he noticed someone else looking at him. It was a girl. Had he been any other boy, he would have had to sit there and wonder why she was looking at him, but he was able to pop into her thoughts and see quite easily that she was tired of the few young men in her little village, especially since two were her brothers and three were her cousins, and that meant that there were only two other eligible bachelors living there. Gibson seemed like a dream to her, with his white skin and glasses. He looked like he must be rich, and the fact that his parents owned a pretty decent truck only further proved it.

She smiled at him. He felt his cheeks flush and found that his smile was stuck. She laughed at him. She was dancing with her cousin Enrique, trying to make Gibson jealous, for he certainly didn't know it was her cousin. But he couldn't dance and she scared the crap out of him, so he stayed in his seat, resting.

Her name was Lourdes and though she wasn't particularly beautiful, Gibson wasn't really judgmental. He watched her take a turn with John, who noticed that she kept looking back at the boy. "You go say hello to him," said John. "He hates dancing and he is shy. He needs friends," he said, as best he could.

When she approached, Gibson began to panic. It didn't matter that he could read her thoughts, he still didn't seem to be able to do anything. Luckily, Lourdes was pretty forward and demanded that he join her for a dance. "I am a bad dancer," he said, amazed that he could even get those words out in Spanish.

"I will teach you," she said, and pulled him into the throng, proceeded to not teach him anything at all, but dance around him, moving him here and there, and finding her pleasure in laughing at him. He tried very hard, but his body didn't seem to move the way he wanted it to, or the way her mind was saying it should. When the song ended, he tried to smile again and then turned tail and sat back down.

She followed him back anyway and touched his arm. He knew immediately that she was no a virgin and she had certain intentions that she wasn't sure she would follow through on, all of which seemed to involve coaxing him to the little shed where they donkey lived and where she'd first had sex with Pedro, one of the young men that she didn't want to marry, but probably would anyway for lack of options. Gibson felt his cheeks flush red and blood rushing where he really didn't want it to go.

While keeping an eye out for her parents, she moved her chair right next to his, letting her arm press against his. When she felt no one was looking, she would giggle into his ear, her breath hot and heavy. He jumped when she kissed his neck, and she laughed out loud. "You have never been with a woman?" she said seductively and not at all believing that to be the case. It was rather implausible to her.

"I need to stay here," he said, his hands resting heavily in his lap.

"Come with me," she whispered. "I know a quiet place where we can be alone together."

"I can't leave. My parents will worry." Oh, how he wanted to leave.

John and Monica continued to look his way every few minutes, their attention greatly distracted by each other and everyone else who wanted to dance with them. He tried to distract himself by popping into other heads, including theirs. Monica thought it was sweet, that he had found a nice girl to talk to – she had no idea what kind of agony he was in. John seemed to wonder and recognized that he was uncomfortable.

She pulled at his hand to get his attention. Apparently she had said something, not that he needed her to repeat it, for it was echoing in her mind. The shed, the shed. She wanted him to go with her. He couldn't get up of course, not in his condition, so he ignored her and started to randomly check the minds of anyone, desperate for something that would distract him, but most people out there were drunk and having the most awful thoughts of what they wanted to do with some of the other people.

"You need a beer to relax, maybe?" she asked, starting to feel like a failure at seduction. He nodded. If she went away, maybe he could breath again and calm himself down. And a beer would probably have the same affect. When she returned he felt a little better. He sipped the beer – it was his first but he was trying very hard to not let Lourdes know – and could tell that he would have to figure something out, for John and Monica didn't seem like they were leaving any time soon.

Lourdes was definitely losing hope, and he felt miserable at that. He wanted to do all those terrible things with her, but he was frightened. Mostly, he knew his brain was not thinking at all and that he was in no position to make such a decision. "They watch me very close," he said. "I don't think I can get away."

"You are a man, though. Why should they care so much?"

"They worry about me. They do not want me to get hurt."

"Hurt?" She made a sound of derision. "It is no matter to them what you do."

It made sense to him. He wondered if he could give them the slip. His brain clicked with ideas about how he would get away. "The shed is that way?" he asked, pointing to where he knew it was.

She nodded and didn't seem particularly curious as to how he knew that.

"Let's dance again. They will notice if I am not here, but if we are dancing, it will be harder for them to find me. They won't know that I am gone for a long time." He said this, knowing full well it was not true. They were always conscious of his whereabouts. He began to pray fervently to the god he never spoke to, that for just fifteen minutes they would forget him.

Both John and Monica saw him dancing with the girl again and they felt nothing but pleasure at the thought of him interacting with someone his own age. The thought of his going off with the girl to have sex wasn't crossing their minds.

"Now," he said to the girl, and they both ran off laughing, mostly unnoticed.

She took him to the shed, and it smelled exactly as the small enclosed home of a donkey could expect to smell. Lourdes did not smell much better. It was obvious that she did not use deodorant, but then most of the people they came across smelled strongly of body odor. Right now, he didn't really care. He tried very hard to read her mind to know what she wanted him to do, but he was quickly losing this battle to his own urges.

Lourdes nimbly unbuckled his belt and pulled his pants and underwear down, and he was equally quick at pulling up the multitude of skirts she was wearing, allowing his hands to run along her legs. She was kissing him all over, standing on her tiptoes waiting for him. It took him a few seconds to figure out exactly what to do and where to go, but then he was inside her, one hand clutching her still covered breast, the other wrapped around her waist. It didn't last long, four thrusts and he exploded, his knees weak, his head resting on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said in English, and then repeated himself in Spanish. He knew she was disappointed.

"You have never done this before," she said as she cleaned herself off with one of her skirts.

He shook his head and started getting dressed again.

"Boys have no endurance."

He shook his head again.

"You need to keep practicing. You will be back tomorrow?"

"No. We only came for the wedding."

"But you are not far away? You could come back."

"Probably not."

She did not like this answer.

"But I don't know for sure," he added, knowing very well for sure, but not wanting her to be sad. "Maybe I can. I'd like to."

It appeased her somewhat. "I will head back now. You stay here for a few minutes. I don't want my mother to think we were together. And don't get caught coming back."

He leaned against the wall where Lourdes had been and reached out to the crowd until he found John and Monica. They were both well aware that he had vanished and that the girl was missing as well. It seemed that they had gone off together, but neither John nor Monica could shake the possibility that it was worse than that. John was especially pissed. _Boy, you better get your ass back here right now._ Gibson tucked in his shirt and tried to make himself look like he hadn't just done what he'd done.


	25. Chapter 25

John had already conferred with Monica about Gibson's disappearance. She didn't want to make a scene and get the entire village wrapped up into it, but she knew he would be unable to just let Gibson wander back, and she felt a nugget of fear in her own heart, pressing against her lungs, making her hands shake. It was agreed that John would start to look for him, if he could slip away from the crowd, and she would stay to dance.

Gibson knew he was coming, and it would only be a matter of time before he tracked him down, and the longer it took to do that, the madder he would be. He met John's eye a few houses later, and John jogged over to him. "Where have you been? Are you ok?"

"I'm fine."

"Where were you? What the hell were you thinking? Were you with that girl?"

Gibson shrugged.

"Don't you shrug this off. This is serious Gibson. Even if you knew she wasn't going to hurt you, she might have accidentally led you off to some place dangerous." He yelled a little more, but Gibson just tuned it out, his mind already having found Lourdes' and listening to every single embarrassing detail that she was sharing with her friends.

John grabbed hold of his shirt and began to pull him back to the party. "You have nothing to say for yourself?" he asked furiously.

When Monica saw them return, she immediately broke away from her dance partner, a 70-year-old toothless man, and ran to meet them. She knew it couldn't be good if John was manhandling him so, though he released him as soon as she got there. "What happened? Gibson, are you alright?" she asked, her hands pressing his hair back, trying to make eye contact with him. "Did she hurt you?" His cheeks flushed bright red and she began to catch on. "I'll talk to him, John," she said, embracing him to calm his nerves. "Go dance some more."

"We should leave."

"Let's not make a bigger scene than has already occurred. They'll forget in a few minutes. And there's no need to get the girl in trouble too."

"The girl?" She watched as his brain clicked, leaving a look of utter disbelief on his face. "Oh god, did you...?" he started to ask Gibson.

"John," replied Monica with a little more force. "I've got it."

She took Gibson back with her onto the dance floor, unconsciously gripping his hands extra tight.

_Did you have sex with her?_

He refused to look up.

"Oh, Gibson, sweetie," she said, touching his face again. He furrowed his brow angrily and pulled his face away.

_Did you use a condom?_

This was the first time he thought of one. He hadn't had much in the way of sex ed growing up they way he did, and had never had any of it drilled into his head over and over again. When he didn't answer, she took that to mean he did not. There was nowhere for him to get one, he never had a moment to himself to go buy one, and she highly doubted anyone out here had access to them either.

_What happens if she gets pregnant? We can't stay. We won't know. You won't be able to help her. And out here, she can't just go get an abortion. Her family might chose to ostracize her and she would be left on her own. Don't you realize what could happen to her?_

_She'll just have to marry Pedro_, he thought to himself, trying to not feel worried. Pregnancy hadn't crossed his mind either. Nothing had crossed his mind but having sex.

Monica looked at Lourdes who was still giggling with her friends. She was a short, somewhat plump girl with a moon-shaped face and flat dull features, probably about Gibson's age. Monica guessed that it wasn't the girl's first time by a long shot.

_She could have diseases, Gibson. _Her mind began to tick them off, with disgusting images and descriptions of complications. AIDS, Chlamydia, gonorrhea, syphilis, genital warts, and herpes. He definitely didn't think of all that.

"I'm tired," he said, and he was. His face was pale and covered with a thin layer of sweat, so she took him to the side and sat with him, turning down more offers to dance, for she'd already danced with everyone at least twice.

"We'll leave soon," she said. And sure enough they did, after saying their goodbyes and thanks to everyone. The party continued on as they drove away.

John was tight-lipped, not sure what to say. He wanted to chastise the boy for leaving, but he definitely didn't want to discuss what he'd gone off to do. Gibson leaned against the door and looked out the window. Monica tried to lighten the situation by laughing over the humorous moments of the party, sometimes getting a response out of John. She slipped in a few more lectures to Gibson, reminding him that John needed to protect him, and showing him glimpses of the man he'd been fifteen years earlier, his own son kidnapped. _Don't make him relive that. Understand that he is just trying to keep you safe. He was scared, that's all._ She begged him to apologize.

"I'm sorry," he finally said, still looking out the window. "I shouldn't have left."

"No, you shouldn't," said John, speaking to him finally. "You shouldn't have gone off with that girl, period. That was a bone-headed, stupid thing to do."

"John, he apologized. He's had a rough afternoon and he doesn't feel well. Let's drop it, ok?" She took his hand and squeezed it. "Don't let a few scary minutes this evening erase all the good of today."

He grinned at her. "We got married today, didn't we?"

"Yes, we did."

"Best damn day of my life."

At the hotel, Monica followed Gibson into his room, after waving off John again.

"I want to be alone," said Gibson.

"You know I'm not mad."

"It's not that. I just want to be alone."

She sat down on the bed next to him and felt a wave of sympathy. "Was it bad? Was she mean to you?"

"I really don't want to talk about it."

"Very few people have a good first time."

"I know. Trust me, I know. It… it doesn't make it any easier when it's actually happened to me though."

"I wish you would have waited, though, but I understand that our circumstances don't really allow you to get to know anyone long enough to have a relationship with them. It's not emotionally healthy for you to live like this. And I realize that you're a teenage boy, a normal teenage boy in most respects. And you've got the added pressure of having to hear everyone's thoughts. It can't be easy. I know you've put up with a lot just from John and me."

He raised his eyebrows as though that were an understatement and Monica laughed.

"You have to deal with us, and we have to deal with the fact that you know everything about us. It's not an easy situation for any of us, but I think we've done a good job so far. Will you promise me something?" she asked.

He nodded, even though he already knew what she was going to say.

"If you get into that situation again, and you aren't strong enough to walk away from it, use a condom. I will turn my back the next time we're in a pharmacy and you can buy them if you see fit. Just don't ever, ever do what you did today. It's bad for you, and it's bad for her. If you think you're mature enough to have sex, then you need to make mature decisions. Got it?" She stared him down until he croaked out a feeble "Yes, ma'am."

"And if you can, just tell us that you need to be alone or something. We can even think of some sort of code, just between the two of us. I think it will be a while before John comes around."

"But enough of that," she continued. "I wanted to let you know how happy I am that you could be a part of my wedding. Being a witness is a big deal. And the lazo," she said, referring to the cord she still had slung over her shoulder, "I'm glad it was you and not that old lady who put it on us."

"She was mad that I did that. But I didn't care. I figured you'd prefer me over her."

"Of course."

A few moments of silence passed.

"You should go," Gibson said. "John's waiting for you."

"I know." She wrapped her arms around him for a long time. Her mind was full of _Don't grow up so fast_ and _I don't want you to get hurt_ and even a few _I love you_s that she didn't feel were appropriate for her to say to a boy who wasn't truly her son. Gibson didn't want her to let go.

Back in her own room, she found John flipping through a magazine, which he tossed aside upon her entrance.

"Did you talk to him?" he asked.

"Mmhm."

The conversation didn't go any further, for she was already in his arms, his lips on hers, her hands on his chest, undoing the buttons of his shirt.

"You look so beautiful."

"Even after hours of dancing?"

"Monica, you look beautiful even after we've been hiding in the woods for three weeks without showers or much in the way of sleep. I'm a little biased, though, you know."

"Yeah, I've noticed," she said, grinning. "Luckily for you, I have the same kind of bias in your direction."

He pulled her towards the bed and sat there looking up at her, with her hands in his. "How does it feel to be Mrs. Doggett?" he asked, looking a little proud of himself.

She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head. "That's Barbara's name. I was thinking Mrs. Reyes-Doggett."

He laughed at her. "Ok, then, how does it feel to be Mrs. Reyes-Doggett?"

"Somewhere between a dream come true and it's about damn time."

"Is that all?" he asked, slipping his hands underneath her shirt.

She shivered. "I feel like we should go to bed right now and consummate this marriage."

He responded by pushing up her shirt and kissing her belly. His fingers slid around the waist of her skirt until they found a button, which was soon undone, leaving her skirt to fall to the ground. She sat on his lap and kissed him harder and faster, her fingers wandering up and down his back and sides. He was growing hard beneath her.

The wedding shirt came off and he pushed the cups of her bra down, touching her nipples gently with his thumbs before taking them in his mouth and teasing them with his lips and teeth. She could only take a few minutes of this before she had to discard her bra to the same pile as the rest of her clothes and spread out on the bed. John's clothes were soon added and he returned to the bed, kissing the inside of her thighs until she moaned. Finally, her panties disappeared too.


	26. Chapter 26

His breath was so hot against her sensitive skin as he kissed higher and higher along her thighs. She begged him to touch her, and when his fingers first brushed against her clit she writhed in pleasure. He slid a couple fingers inside of her, and she pressed hard against him. He liked how she tasted and felt, his tongue slipping between her folds and running over her clit with the faintest of pressure. Over and over he went, pressing hard, while his fingers slid in and out of her with greater frequency. With a breathless cry she called out for him to stop.

Her hair was even more loose than before, but it only served to turn him on more. He was instantly rock hard again just looking at her, with tendrils of hair plastered to her forehead and her skin slick with sweat. His trip up her body was stopped just when he began to kiss the sides of her breasts, gently squeezing her nipples between her fingers. She brushed him away and with a naughty smile rolled him over onto his back.

Her finger touched the tip of his cock and slid down the length. She liked to watch him jump and twitch with anticipation. She kissed him, his stomach, his hips, his thighs, letting her skin brush against his erection very few seconds. When she felt he had been tortured enough, she took him in her mouth. She may have been married as a Catholic today, but she was certainly not going to fuck like a Catholic tonight.

He placed a warning hand on her head, his signal that she needed to stop or he would come. She sidled up next to him. "I don't ever want to leave this bed," she said, her hands unable to rest, and her teeth and lips soon following. She straddled him, hovering above him, letting the tip of his cock brush against her clit just often enough to put them both in exquisite agony, all the while kissing him and nibbling on his skin. His hands grabbed her hips, but she wouldn't relent. "Mm mm," she said, shaking her head. "They took all my sins from me today; I need new ones." She rolled on to her stomach and looked back at him seductively.

They rarely fucked this way. John didn't like it. He had an endearing need to be able to look into her face during sex and thought that this was too impersonal and too disrespectful. But Monica loved it. She loved to feel his chest on her back, the kisses he planted on her shoulders and back, and most especially she loved the angle and pressures she felt. Being as it was her wedding night, he certainly wasn't going to protest, and being as it was sex, he certainly wasn't going to have a problem enjoying it. He ran his fingers down her side, stopping at her hips, pulling her up just enough to enter her. She moaned appreciatively with each stroke, begging him to fuck her harder.

He bit her shoulders and the back of her neck and then used his free hand to stroke her clit in rhythm with his thrusts, until her moans became muffled cries. He pulled out and whispered heavily into her ear, "Not tonight. I wanna watch you when you come." She wasn't in a position to complain, and as soon as she could roll over she pulled him back into her, her legs wrapping eagerly around him, pressing him into her, her hips grinding into his own. With a string of cries, she came, her eyes closed tight, her brow furrowed, her nostrils flared, her neck exposed and her head was thrown back. She was a beautiful sight. John burrowed his head into that long neck and stopped holding himself back, thrusting harder, drawing out her orgasm a few more seconds, not stopping till he came.

Shivering in their sweat, they lay in each other's arms, her fingers running threw his hair, his hands still admiring her breasts and the dip of her waist and the perfect curve of her ass.

"I never thought I'd ever feel like this again, Monica. Mrs. Reyes-Doggett," he added with a smile.

"Happy?"

"Mm… more than that. Different than that. Almost like everything is right in the world all because I've found the love of my life. Like having you as my wife, having you by my side, makes all of the horrors and troubles in life seem manageable. You know there hasn't been a day since we left that I haven't been so grateful that you were there with me. And now that you're my wife, it's a … relief. Kinda like I don't have to worry about ever losing this feeling." He slipped his fingers into hers.

She wasn't sure what to say. She loved him, without question. Her eyes darted back and forth looking into his and she found she couldn't speak, so she laid her head down on his chest for a moment. "You know I've loved you almost as long as I've known you," she began. "And I always assumed I would end up here, at your side, as your wife. And here I am, as I knew I would be, and yet it's still unbelievable." She kissed his chest, needing another moment to compose her thoughts. "You said earlier today that you didn't deserve me. But it's me who never deserved you."

"How do you figure?" She didn't answer and he ran his finger along her braid. "You can think the world of me, Mon. I don't think so highly of myself, but you seem to, even after all these years. But you gotta realize that I've never thought less of you. I've never thought of you as being beneath me in any way. You think I would marry you if you didn't possess all those qualities you're always saying I possess? You're an amazing woman and I'd never think of you as anything less than my equal. Which I guess means we both deserve each other, right?"

She managed to look up at him again, his blue eyes kind and gentle. "I guess so," she said, with a smile.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 14: The One About the Supersoldier

Summer came and they continued their nomadic ways, staying nowhere longer than a week or two. Gibson had returned to his super-cautious behavior, quieter than normal, his head cocked and eyes closed as he listened for hours on end. Monica didn't like the circles that were growing darker under his eyes and feared another relapse, so she spent extra time trying to distract him. They went to the movies, they went to Mexican wresting matches, they went swimming. She tried to make sure that wherever they went, they at least had a TV and they would watch ridiculous telenovelas together, laughing at the adults playing teenager rock stars on Rebelde and the hyper melodrama of Amarte es mi pecado, or To Love You Is My Sin. Still, he didn't relax.

It was in the city of La Pesca when things came to a head. Monica had pushed for the town since it was near a lake, a river, and reasonably close to the ocean, so there were many opportunities for fishing and swimming. They had just set out to buy supplies along the main thoroughfare when Gibson suddenly changed direction and walked into a small coffee bean shop. He curled up underneath the window immediately and put his finger to his mouth for them to be quiet. Their minds buzzed with confusion and concern, and all he had to do was point to the top of his spine. Supersoldier. Monica crouched down with him, tilting her head to John to buy something so that the woman at the counter would not make a scene.

_Which one is he?_ she asked.

He pointed to a man who looked very much like he belonged in that town. He was unmistakably Hispanic, but he was also incredibly built and looked like he would gladly kill them with impunity.

Gibson gave a signal that they could move on, so John quit smelling coffee beans and bought a bag as a thank you to the woman who never asked why his wife and the young man with them were hiding. They hurried to their truck and zipped out of town as fast as they could.

"Who was that? How did they find us? Is he following us?" Monica asked in quick succession, knowing that the questions had been flying around in her head since Gibson had created the sign for supersoldier.

He looked pale, his eyes large and scared. "I don't know. He was just looking for us. That's about all I could read. He was sent here. Someone knows we're here. Someone's been tracking us. I don't know who or how."

"We've lost them before," said John, "And we'll lose them again. We'll trade out the truck and go for a little camping trip, ok?"

"He was going to kill you," said Gibson, looking like he'd witnessed the act already, which he pretty much had, being in the supersoldiers mind. "His orders were to shoot you on sight and take me."

John and Monica were silent. They'd never fooled themselves that what they were doing wasn't dangerous, but it had never been so close to them before. They might truly lose their lives protecting Gibson. There were people out there who were trying their best to make that happen.

Chapter 15: Vera

They had survived the summer and were setting into fall. Gibson still kept them moving, but they did not have any more close calls. Finances were beginning to get tight – they had less than $15,000 and John was starting to talk about getting some work as a mechanic or something equally under the radar that he could easily do. Still, out in the farmlands of northwestern Mexico, they were able to find a cheap apartment for rent in a small town that had all of three stores – a grocery, a feed store, and a general store that sold everything from household items to used clothes to car parts.

For a full week they'd been quite cozy. It was about as long as Gibson could manage to be comfortable, before the feelings that they would be caught began to consume him. Monica cheerily went about her business trying to keep him distracted, taking him with her to pick up the freshly butchered goat meat she'd gladly accepted from their landlord's brother. They came home with over twenty pounds of meat, and grand plans to recreate the cabrito asado that her family's cook from her teenage years had made.

As she set to work carving the meat, Gibson and John were given the task of cutting up chilies and onion for a rajas. One minute she was laughing with them over her inability to properly butcher the slab of meat, the next, she was slumping to the floor, the knife clattering to the ground. John had her in his arms immediately, but he wasn't sure what had happened. She seemed unconscious, as though she had fainted., and didn't respond to his calling her name. John looked at Gibson in a panic, as if the boy would be able to help him.

Gibson stared at Monica, squinting his eyes and furrowing his brow as he tried to figure it out. "It's like she's dreaming or something. I'm not sure." Suddenly he shook his head. "I… I can't read her." He closed his eyes and concentrated very hard. "It's like I'm shut out. Something strange is going on inside her head."

John was just about to pick her up and carry her to the bed when her eyes slowly opened. "Vera," she said, and then looked around her as if she were searching for someone. She looked up at John. "I had a vision. A real one. I've never experienced anything like that. Did I fall?" she asked, realizing that she was on the kitchen floor. Trying to find the words to express herself, she looked down at the floor, blinking slowly, before turning her head to John.

"I saw our daughter. The one we're supposed to have, John. We were… on the beach. You, me, and Vera. That's her name. I just knew it when I looked at her. She was playing in the sand, and then she looked at me. 'The time is near,' she said. 'I will bring him to you.' There was a boy, I think, but I couldn't see him clearly." She smiled at John. "She was beautiful. She had your eyes, blue and clear."

John's eyes at the moment were tinged with sadness. "Come on now, let's get you back up. Gibson and I can finish dinner. You should go rest."

"That's all you're going to say?"

"What do you want me to say, Monica? You fainted, you nodded off or something and had a dream."

She narrowed her eyes. Gibson decided it was a good time to head to his bedroom and close the door.

"It wasn't a dream. It was real. I had the most vivid vision I've ever had in my life. It was like I was actually there, years from now, in that moment. And she was real. She will be real."

"Mon, you know I want more than anything to have children with you, but it's just not a possibility right now, and I don't think that it does any good to start daydreaming about it. We don't know if our lives will ever change to a point where we can think about kids."

"It's going to happen, John. It is supposed to happen. I don't know how, but I know that one day we will have a daughter."

"Can we just drop the subject for now? You should rest."

"Why are you brushing this off?"

"Why in the world would you think I'd want to stand here and talk about something I want more than anything, but I can't possibly have? Don't you realize how much it hurts me to not have a family with you? Don't you know how much it hurts to pretend, even for a second, that our lives will ever be different again?" It was the first time in a long time that he had raised his voice at her, but it didn't deter her.

"Don't you see, John? I'm telling you it's going to happen. The issue here is that you don't believe me."

"No, frankly, I don't. I've had enough of this conversation. I'm going for a walk."

He strode out the door, ignoring her calls to him.


	28. Chapter 28

She stared at the closed door, and then walked into the bathroom, where she emptied her remaining pills down the toilet. She'd just picked up another six month supply, and down they went too.

When he returned that night, dinner was long since over and Gibson was still hiding in his room, though Monica had managed to coax him out for the meal. She was lying in bed, her mind full of images of the girl, how having a child would impact their lives, and what to do with John.

"I'm sorry," he said, right off the bat.

She looked at him hard. "Are you saying you believe me?"

He faltered. "Mon, I want to believe you. More than anything. But I don't see how it could possibly work. You know how our life is. It's not the kind of life you bring a child into."

She sat up, her eyes excited. "No, I've been thinking about how to make it work. We could get a little cot… a Moses basket… she'd be small, she wouldn't require a lot of space. She…" Monica's voice trailed off.

"You have no idea what is required of raising a child. They're loud, they're demanding. Every moment of your day is spent giving them care and attention. You're washing clothes constantly, you're feeding them constantly, you're entertaining them constantly. How do you figure Gibson fits in to this, huh? What happens when you've got a sick baby and there's a supersoldier coming at you? What do you do, huh?"

"I saw her. She was fine. She was healthy. Whatever happens to us, it's going to be ok."

John sighed. "I'm not going to get into this. You know how I feel. I know how you feel. You can either chose to accept that and drop the subject or you can keep harping on it."

"Harping?" she asked, her eyebrows raised. "I'm just trying to get you to understand that whatever is going to happen is already decided and that it's going to be fine."

He sat on the bed next to her and she leaned in to him. "I can't, Mon. I just can't. I love you, and you know I do, but right now, I'm putting my foot down. No kids. Gibson comes first. We agreed upon that at the beginning. Don't make me chose between Gibson and my own child. It's hard enough having to put him above you."

She kissed him in response. Long and hard, but not especially erotic. "Bed?" she asked.

"No, not tonight. Maybe not until you get this out of your head." He untangled her arms from his and kissed her forehead. "You should sleep. I'll stay on the couch for a while."

For a while apparently meant days. There was thick tension in the little apartment, as they feasted off of various cabrito recipes. Gibson grew bored with the games he owned, but went ahead and started them over again. He didn't like being out there, and John was starting to get angrier as Monica remained stubbornly fixed to the idea of having a child.

"You tossed your birth control!" Gibson heard John yell furiously one night. Right now, he hated living with a married couple.

"It takes a long time for the body to readapt. I thought I should be ready for the day when you are able to accept the thought of a child."

A door slammed.

Gibson chose to stay inside his own head.

Monica would come to his room at meal times, trying to coax him out and giving up. She spent a lot of time alone.

It was nearly two weeks into the disagreement and still nothing had been resolved. Gibson was desperate for a change of situation, spending hours in his room listening for a hint of trouble, but there was nothing. Three weeks of silence was scary. John and Monica yelling at each other was scary. He spent his down time thinking about Lourdes.

They had not shared a bed in all this time. Both were suffering a fair amount of agony, but neither seemed to be willing to back down. They had only managed to reach a level of tolerance with one another, neither one bringing up the subject, making it the elephant in the center of the room.

John had definitely set up camp on the couch. Life with two headstrong people, even if they were in love, wasn't pleasurable in the least for Gibson. He had decided it was finally time for a shower and cautiously ventured out of his room. John greeted him with a "Hey, buddy," and he nodded in acknowledgement. The bathroom was through the other bedroom, where Monica was still sleeping. Gibson wasn't sure when his hours had gotten so off that 7am felt like sleeping in.. Obviously, sleeping was his primary way to deal with the situation at hand.

The sound of the water turning on woke Monica up. She lay there for a few minutes, not ready to wake up, but her mind was already stressing over John. She thought she would try to talk to him again. If Vera was real, if Vera was going to come into their lives at some point regardless, then maybe she should back off of John for a while. She couldn't make Vera come any earlier than John could postpone her.

A strange sensation washed over her and she felt flush. She wandered what had happened, as her skin prickled into goose bumps. A wave of nausea that quickly turned into an unmistakable need to vomit. She jumped out of bed, mentally called out to Gibson to cover himself, and barged into the bathroom. He had just managed to grab a towel and tried to not listen to her retching over the toilet. He turned off the water – there would be no shower this morning after all – and didn't say a word to her.

John saw him dripping water across the floor, his towel soaked from grabbing it before he could turn off the water. "What happened?"

"Monica's… sick?" he didn't know what to say, and he knew it wasn't good.

In the bathroom, Monica flushed the toilet and wiped her mouth off with a scrap of toilet paper. She leaned against the wall, her legs curled up, her head in her hands. _Not good, not good_, she thought. The door opened again, the faucet was turned on, and a cold wash rag was pressed against her hand.

"Here," he said.

She looked up, already in tears, and took the wash cloth, wiping off her mouth and forehead. Her peace did not last long, and she was soon over the toilet again, but this time John was pulling her hair back, and she fell into his arms when she was through, crying hard.

"You think it's safe to lie down again?" he asked, tenderly.

She nodded, and he helped her back to the bed. They didn't speak. They already knew.

In a haze, she realized that Gibson had come in to her room, sitting on a wooden chair in her room, with his Gameboy. The front door closed – John had left. Monica didn't feel like speaking. She felt like if she moved she might throw up again. _Do you think…?_ she tried to ask, but she could not form the words even in her mind.

"I don't know," said Gibson. "I don't know how to tell these things."

_What about John? Is he very mad?_

Gibson ignored her. He hated being in the middle.

John roused her from her sleep when he came home. "Here," he said, handing her a paper bag. "You should try these."

She looked in the bag and found three pregnancy tests, so she closed the bag and buried her head in her pillow. He touched her shoulder gently, but left without a word.

When the door clicked, she pulled herself out of the bed, still feeling nauseous, but much better than earlier in the morning. She opened the boxes and peed on the sticks as directed. And then she waited, back on the bathroom floor, for she didn't want to see the counter, where the three sticks sat, telling her what she didn't want to know, but already knew fully well. When she was sure that five minutes had passed, more than enough time for the results she stood and looked. Each one was different. Two pink stripes, a blue cross, and a Clearblue Easy stick that said bluntly, "Embarazada." Pregnant. She went back to bed.

After half an hour of sitting in the living room in a state of anxiety, John knocked on the door. Monica did not answer.

"Did you…?" He didn't even want to say.

She waved her hand in the direction of the bathroom.


	29. Chapter 29

He stood there, in the bathroom, looking at the results, and finding it very difficult to breathe. The universe was definitely fucking him over today. He wanted to be happy, for her, for them, for this child. But nothing could change their situation. Nothing could make their life compatible with raising a child, other than a miracle. If they had managed to stay somewhere for a few years, rather than running whenever Gibson sensed danger, maybe then he might be able to smile. Not now.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, still wearing the boxers and tank top she'd gone to sleep in, and he sat down next to her. Neither one spoke for a long time.

"I didn't know," she finally said.

"I believe you."

"I wouldn't do that to you. I wanted this to be a mutual decision."

He nodded gravely.

"I was careful. You know I was."

"I'm not mad at you, Mon."

"Then can we be happy about this?"

He looked at her with pain in his eyes. "We can't keep this child."

Monica recoiled from him as though he'd hit her. "What happened to your newfound Catholicism?" she asked snidely.

"You think that doesn't go against everything I believe too?"

"Then how can you say that?"

"How can I not? You being pregnant doesn't change a damned thing. We're still on the run. We're still spending a quarter of our lives living out of a truck. We're running out of money. And do I need to remind you that there's a sixteen-year-old boy out there who's depending on us to keep him safe? This could put his life in more danger than it already is."

"I'm 35 years old, John, the age when fertility begins to plummet. I was on the Pill. And yes, my life is not particularly child-friendly. But don't you see that this is a miracle? It's a miracle even without considering my vision."

"You know, your body probably already knew it was pregnant. Things like that happen. That's probably why you fainted. I once dreamt about having a son before Luke was born, but I never considered myself psychic when the doctor told us it was a boy. It's not a miracle. It's an accident. And it's an accident that could put all our lives in danger."

"Oh, that's good. So you want me to go out and get some back alley abortion, because that's not going to put my life in danger at all."

"We can risk a hospital for this. Of course you should see a doctor."

She looked at him with disbelief and shook her head. "You have no idea where you are, do you? Your Catholic Church has a stronghold on this country. Abortion is illegal here, for the most part."

He put his head in his hands. An unplanned pregnancy was not anything he was prepared to deal with.

Monica put a tentative hand on his shoulder. "John, I'm scared too. Just because I want her doesn't make it any easier to deal with. But she was real. I saw her. It's going to be ok."

"I'm sick of listening to this bullshit about visions," he said, with anger and a touch of hurt. "It's not helping me figure this out."

"Well, no, I don't suppose it would," she said coldly, pulling away from him again. "You never have accepted my visions, much less your own."

"I've heard enough. When you're ready to talk about the matter at hand, instead of your dreams, let me know." He stood and looked down upon her. "I'm going to head into the city with Gibson," he said, referring to Hermosillo. "We might be gone until tomorrow."

It was the cruelest thing he'd ever done to her, and it was something just a week earlier he would never have been able to imagine. They had never been separated, not with such distance, since 2002. But he needed access to the internet and possibly a library. Perhaps they could manage to get to another country, though he shuddered at the cost. There were two options that he could see: stay in Mexico and have this baby, and truly jeopardize Gibson's life, or flee the country, putting them all at risk of being caught and severely depleting their funds. A third option stood mostly ignored in the back of his mind – split up and let Monica go her own way, possibly turn herself in, so that she could get the care she needed, and the child could be born in safety, and then handed over for adoption. He knew very well her views on adoption, and he certainly didn't want to lose her. But Gibson came first.

"You don't have to do that," said Gibson on the drive. "I'm not scared. I mean, I can take care of myself."

"Yeah? And what happens the next time you break your leg or get pneumonia?"

Gibson shrugged. "I'm just saying."

"I'm not going to abandon you, Gibson. You know that."

"Oh, I know. I like being alive and all, but sometimes you get too wrapped up in protecting me. I'm way more grown up than I was two years ago. And I can shoot ok." He looked at John until John looked at him. "I could help take care of the baby."

_Great, two kids to look after_. _Dammit. Shouldn't have thought that._

Gibson scowled. "I just want her to be happy."

_Enough._

He shrugged again and watched the waves of corn as they passed. When he popped back into John's mind half an hour later, he couldn't help but speak up again. "You should have told her that Vera was your mother's name."

"I'm sure she's aware of that."

"Not that I could tell."

"Well, then, that's quite a coincidence."

"I believe her. Even if you don't. About the vision. She wasn't there when I tried to get in her mind. Something weird happened. But I read her memories of it."

"She paying you to talk my ear off about that nonsense?"

Gibson decided it wasn't worth talking to John any more.


	30. Chapter 30

A/N: OMG! I did it! Ok, I'm not really surprised, as I've now won all six years I've tried NaNo. But this year I totally broke through my word count goal - final tally was 60,362! Yay! And judging by how far this story has gone, I'm guessing there's another 200,000 words to go. I'm taking December 1 off from writing, against my will, but will resume tomorrow! Not that anyone is reading...

* * *

Alone in the house, her husband away, Monica didn't feel as upset as she thought she would. She'd expected a cry or two, some general misery, and possibly some agony, but as the truck drove away, a sense of calm and acceptance came over her. She knew that he would come around. Perhaps he just needed to get away for a while to think things over.

With John gone, she was able to forget the tension that had hung so heavily in the air the last few weeks. She pressed a hand over her womb, somewhat astounded at what was in there. _Hello little one_, she said.

It was already evening and she hadn't yet managed to get dressed. She was beginning to feel a new sensation come over her, an awakening, a chance for new possibilities, a new life, not just the one inside her but the one that lay before her. A hot shower and a meal later, she felt energized. After cleaning the kitchen and hand washing a few clothes, she settled down with a new book, luxuriating in the evening, her concentration broken often to speak to her daughter. _I wasn't expecting you so soon. But we'll make do. It's not as bad as your father says. He'll come around soon, I know. He's needs you, as scared as he is to accept that. You really couldn't ask for a better father. _

In the city, John and Gibson settled into a seedy motel for the night. As soon as the boy was in the shower, John broke down. How had he gotten himself into this mess? An overwhelming sense of duty and a need to protect those in danger. In this moment, he truly regretted allowing Monica to come. She had made him unimaginably happy; she had made what should have been a terrifying ordeal almost manageable. He wasn't even sure where he and Gibson would be at this point, considering after two years the boy still didn't seem to trust him. But Gibson and Monica had a bond and John knew that part of the reason Gibson hadn't run off on his own yet was due to this.

She led him into situations he knew he should avoid, but they'd come out mostly unscathed so far. They could have managed better if everything had stayed the same, and if they adhered more to his advice. He wanted to go deeper underground, to disappear nearly completely from the map. He knew how to be a fugitive. He knew what mistakes they made that led to their capture. As long as they could live off the radar, avoiding any legal matters, they would do better. Gibson's hospital stay was unavoidable, but they paid in cash each day, and destroyed the faked documents they'd used to get him admitted.

A rural clinic here and there would be fine, but Monica would need dozens of hospital visits, which she didn't seem to realize, and then there would be the delivery. He didn't particularly want his wife being treated by a man who claimed to be a doctor, with dirty hands and dubious medical knowledge.

Leaving the country would be equally as dangerous, but he was beginning to formulate a plan that involved them traveling separately and possibly using different modes of transportation. The problem was, he knew Monica would never follow him, not for the reason he was proclaiming. He knew she would keep it, and he knew that he would have to leave her for Gibson's sake, though he had not entirely given up on trying to convince her otherwise. They could have kids one day, perhaps, and maybe if he promised her to make a more concentrated effort to ensure their safety, maybe if he could get them to a safer country, he could convince her that now was not the time to start a family.

Sacrificing his own child was a stab in the heart. He felt sick to his stomach at it. How was he honestly supposed to make this decision?

His search at the library for countries that allowed abortion was disheartening, though not as much as the subject itself. Cuba allowed for it, but only in the first trimester. He wasn't sure how far along she was, but maybe it could work. Guyana as well, but it was much further away, though with a long, long drive they could get there. He leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. When he looked at Gibson, he found the boy staring at him.

"What?"

"Nothing. People are weird. That's all."

John sighed. He really didn't have the energy to deal with a cryptic teenager. "This is serious, Gibson."

"Whatever." Gibson turned away and went back to the Internet.

They drove back that evening and arrived at the double-wide late at night. Monica was sitting on the couch with her book, looking ravishingly beautiful. Pregnancy obviously agreed with her. She watched him closely after greeting him with a simple "Hey."

He nodded in response. His tongue didn't want to move. He didn't want to say the things he needed to say to her, to continue the atrocious debate about what she should do with her body in order to insure their safety. He didn't want to talk about the possibility of splitting up in order to let the child live.

"Did you do anything fun in the city, Gibson?" she asked, quickly giving up on starting a conversation with John.

"No."

No one spoke for a while. Gibson sat down next to Monica and she flipped on the TV. She looked at John, her eyes flickering with hope. He turned away, heading to the bathroom and starting a shower.

"How was it?" she asked Gibson again.

"It was boring. He didn't talk much."

"Did he… decide anything?"

"He's scared."

"I know he is."

"He doesn't think he can handle this."

"What about you, Gibson? How do you feel about it?"

"I'm ok. I told him I'd help, but he still thinks of me as a kid."

"You don't mind?"

"I know that you had a vision. He doesn't. He's afraid to believe that it's true."

"I think he knows, somewhere, deep in his heart, that it's true."

"He's scared because he wants a baby, and he couldn't protect Luke. He doesn't want to fail this on too. There's too much against him."

"But what do you think? We're here to take care of you. You're part of this discussion."

"I don't really know anything about babies. When I listen to John, there's so much to worry about, but when I listen to you, it's better. It doesn't seem so bad. But… you want to keep. John wants a baby, even if it scares him. Maybe it would be good for you."

"I just worry about you, you know. I'm keeping her, but your opinion is important to me."

"I like how it makes you happy. Your… your mind kind of glows, I guess. When you're happy. And you often are, and I like that. Most people are a mix of feelings, constantly changing, but some are always happy. Like they have a smile on the inside. It's warm. I like being in your mind when you're happy," he said, admitting to it like he was stealing or doing something else wrong.

She wrapped her arm around him and pulled him into a side hug, kissing the top of his head. Her body was full of maternal feelings. "Gibson, don't ever stop being you." _I love you. You're like a son to me. Is that ok?_

He smiled bashfully at him. "I don't mind. I miss having a mother."

"And I need practice having a child."

"No you don't. You're pretty good at it." He rested his head on her shoulder, closing his eyes and relaxing for one of the few moments in his life. "John's almost done with his shower. You should go talk to him. Make him change his mind."

She was in bed when John came out, dressed for bed. He didn't say anything, but laid down on his side of the bed, turning his back to her.


	31. Chapter 31

When she placed a hand on his shoulder, asking silently if everything was ok, he pulled away from her. He still had no words for her. He wanted to tell her he wasn't mad, but that he wasn't overjoyed either. His tongue held fast and would not allow him to explain himself. There were no words at all, even in his mind, just a dizzying array of fears and hopes and memories. Perhaps he would be able to talk with her the next day.

But the next day came with no better luck. When she ran to the bathroom in the morning, he left the house. There were cornfields about half a mile away, deserted for the day, and he spent a restless morning walking them, ignoring his empty stomach, still unable to formulate a plan that would work for everyone.

"John," she said when he sullenly walked back in, "Do you want to talk?"

His eyes flashed with sadness and he shook his head. "Don't know what to say."

She nodded without a smile, but came over to him, embracing him until he sunk his head into the crook of her neck. The comfort he normally found there was missing, and he didn't feel like he deserved it anyway. Who was she to love him right now?

She felt his tension and she released him. "I should get back to Gibson's Spanish lesson."

By the time they laid down to sleep, they still had barely spoken to each other. The silence was beginning to affect her too, and she found herself oddly at a loss for words. There was some consolation in his sleeping beside her, but he showed her no affection, no acknowledgement that she was there. If she touched him, he would pull away.

He woke up in a panic, drenched in sweat as though he'd just run five miles as fast as he could. He pretty much had in the dream that had awoken him.

How simple it had started. There was a child in his arms. A girl. He had picked her up and she had wrapped her arms and legs around him tight. They were moving fast, through a forest, he thought. Terror pierced his heart and he could feel the girl shaking. He was also fully aware that this was his child, this was his duty. Whatever they were running from, he wouldn't let it hurt her. He'd sacrifice himself if it came to that.

"Faster!" she cried, her voice wrought with fear and anxiety. He was aware of a blast of heat behind him, but it wasn't close enough to hurt them. Where was Monica? More fear gripped him. He ran faster. There was safety ahead, he vaguely sensed. Maybe Monica as well. Another loud blast blew him from his feet, and he fell hard, taking the brunt of the impact in his arms and knees, shielding the girl who was undoubtedly his daughter. He jumped awake as his body hit the floor of the forest.

It was dark, and he looked to Monica to see if he'd woken her up, but she still seemed asleep. His body was still shaking. The dream had been too vivid, too real and he was left with a sense of anguish, wondering what was supposed to happen next.

He sat down at the kitchen table with a glass of water, sorting through the images and sensations of the dream.

"Are you ok?" asked Monica, standing cautiously at the door of the bedroom, afraid it would be pointless to get closer.

"Just a bad dream, I guess."

She nodded and stood there, still unsure.

"It just spooked me, that's all. You know how it goes, running from some horrible thing, waking up still feeling like you're being chased."

"Hard to avoid dreams like that, when that's how we spend our waking hours." She inched closer to him, pleased that he was talking.

"No kidding." He looked at her, with searching eyes, and she could tell he wanted to say more, that he needed to confide in her, so she stood before him, careful not to touch him in case that was too much and he turned away again. Instead, he looked up at her, his breathing labored, as he fought with his conscience over whether to admit that he'd dreamt of their daughter. He didn't want to feed into her beliefs though, so he simply took her hand in his.

In a flash, he was there again. The woods were on fire. His body was racked with pain. The girl lay on the ground before him, crying, her face scraped and a little bloody. She sniffled and hiccoughed, trying to speak. "Mama needs us. We have to keep going. Don't make me go alone. Don't leave me," she said, her voice broken with sobs.

He felt all his fears and pain vanish as he scooped her into his arms and took off again.

When he opened his eyes, he realized he was slumped in his chair. Monica was bending over him, holding his head in her hands, her eyes watching him, waiting for him to speak. She looked worried.

He wrapped his arms around her waist. What he had seen, what he had experienced was undeniable. That child, Vera, was as real as Luke had ever been. As he knew Luke now, he knew Vera in his vision.

"I'm sorry," he said with great emotion, his head against her belly. She placed her hands on his head, running her fingers through his hair until he began to relax.

"What did you see?" she asked, sitting down at the table with him.

He told her everything. Every detail. "Something bad's going to happen, Monica. What do we have, seven, eight years maybe? It wasn't just a fire in the woods. It was bigger than that. I could feel that it was … catastrophic. And she… she was vital, somehow. I felt like if I could save her, then maybe whatever was going on would stop." He put his head in his hands and looked at her. "That sounds stupid, doesn't it?"

"Of course not. You had a vision. You understand that it's important. It may not make sense now, but it will one day." She placed her hand on his. "Do you want to go to bed?"

He realized that she did not mean to sleep. He made love to her that night gently and apologetically.


	32. Chapter 32

With a gentle and apologetic kiss, he said yes. He made love to her tenderly that night. She winced when he touched her breasts, and explained that all of her senses felt heightened, and she came far too soon for him. When she tried to rectify the situation, he told her no, that he didn't mind, that tonight was about her.

He brushed the hair from her face as she lay in his arms, and he asked how she was feeling.

"Queasy. All the time. Except when I'm nauseous," she said with a laugh.

"We should get you to a doctor."

"What's a doctor going to do? I already know I'm pregnant, and I already know she'll be perfect. I'm not worried."

"I'm worried about you. All kinds of things can go wrong, even if they're not life threatening. Just because we had visions, and assuming they're true, it doesn't mean things won't go wrong."

She thought of Dana and her miracle child, William. He wasn't supposed to happen. Even more than Vera wasn't supposed to happen. Dana's pregnancy had certainly not been without incident, and there were times when it seemed William's life was in danger before he was even born. "Ok," she said, agreeing.

"Mon," he said, "There's something I wanted to ask you. Why Vera?"

The image of the girl sprang to her mind and she tried to understand how it was she knew what the child's name was. "I'm not sure. When I saw her, I knew that she was Vera and she was my daughter. Didn't you?"

He nodded. "That was my mother's name."

"Well, then, I suppose it was meant to be." She touched his face, her fingers examining his cheeks, his nose, his chin, looking at him in a way she hadn't ever before, for now she could see the features that would be passed down to the child. "She's going to have your eyes," she said, pleased.

"Yeah, she will," he added, his mind finally taking in some of the details he hadn't paid attention to. "Blue eyes."

"Will you tell me about your mother?"

He didn't remember much, but what he did remember, he told her. She'd died when he was four, giving birth to a brother who was born too soon, who didn't live but a few minutes. His mother survived another day and they were buried together, in a little plot in Democrat Springs.

"You didn't visit the grave?" he asked.

"Dana and I were a little busy."

"I just thought, when you first said her name was Vera, maybe you'd gone to the cemetery and figured it out. Hm."

He had few memories of his mother, but he talked about helping her, as best as a four year old could, with laundry and cooking. She would let him kneed the dough with her, and they would add cinnamon and sugar to make little sweet buns. The housekeeper his father hired after her death wouldn't let him in the kitchen, chasing him out of the house when she was there.

"Do you think your father became so stern because of her death, or was he always like that?" She thought back to the few stories he'd told her about a distant father, one who barely spoke, who was quick with a strap, the father whom John had joined the Marines at 17 in order to leave.

"I don't remember him much before. He was always that way. Even after Luke was born, he still seemed distant. Would only give a polite smile when he saw him. If my mother's death did that to him, then maybe that's where I got my nature from. And if he loved her half as much as I love you, then I can understand how devastated he must have been." He held her tighter in his arms. "No more talk about death. We made something, didn't we?" he asked, putting his hand on her stomach.

She smiled at him, and pressed herself against him. "Pregnancy hormones," she said. "I've got a few hours till morning sickness starts kicking my ass again. Let's go slower and easier this time."

They fell asleep, content and satisfied, in the early morning hours, as dawn began to turn the sky a dark purple.

**Chapter 16: A Visitor**

The next seven months were filled with a dozen moves. There first stop after leaving the little farming town was San Dionisio del Mar, a town on a lake near the Pacific Ocean. After two weeks, just before they moved on again, they all took a trip to the obstetrician.

"That's her," said John with astonishment, looking at the little dark blip on the sonogram, holding tight to Monica's hand.

"Actually, that's just the gestational sac. And it's too early to tell if it's a boy or a girl," the doctor explained.

John bought a "new-fangled" digital camera. There was no way he would be able to not record every moment of his daughter's life, and saving everything on a little disk rather than on more perishable film seemed like the wisest stupid decision he could make.

The moves were draining on Monica, especially in the beginning. She could never get enough sleep, her morning sickness seemed like it would never go away. Smells were too intense, tastes overwhelmed her, she could barely stomach the foods she was used to and craved mainly things she could not easily get her hands on in Mexico – cottage cheese, the chicken with non-spicy peanut sauce that she used to order at her favorite Thai restaurant in D.C., crappy breakfast microwave breakfast sausages.

John began to work. They were down to $15,000 in cash and if any slight catastrophes were to strike, they would be in a world of pain. He began to take random jobs when he could – general maintenance work, auto shop work, some light construction work here and there. He enjoyed working with his hands, and he greatly missed working. He hadn't realized how bored he'd been the last two and a half years.

Due to Monica's sleeping as much as she could or feeling sick during her first four months, Gibson was released from his daily chore of tutelage under her eye and was instead taken with John. He wasn't sure how much more practical it was to know the difference between a crankshaft and a carburetor versus the history of Pancho Villo, but he welcomed the change. It was also the first time he had really been allowed to associate with people besides John, Monica and the occasional shop keeper, not that he was a social boy or that he missed interacting with others.

She began to feel more like herself during the spring, as her waist began to expand and her daughter's every move could be felt. She and John would lie together at night, relishing in their little miracle, which they would have considered no less a miracle had they been trying to conceive.

Just before they left each city, town, or village that they stopped in, they would load up on baby supplies – a few diapers here, some clothes there, blankets, the Moses basket Monica had spoken about before she knew she was pregnant, a car seat, a sling. The first aid kid grew to include diaper cream, baby Tylenol, an infant thermometer, a bulb syringe. Vera's travel bag was full of clothes and toiletries months before she was born.

They watched her grown on sonogram screen after sonogram screen, watching her progress from peanut to small blob with appendages, to a recognizable infant shape, complete with arms and legs, and finally visible toes and fingers as well. They marveled over her profile. And despite knowing full well that she was a girl, they were still elated when a doctor confirmed the news.

"If you're like my surrogate son," Monica told Gibson one day after instructing him to put his hand on her belly to feel Vera moving around, a level of intimacy between them that made him nervous and a bit weirded out as the child pressed out against his hand, "then she will be like a sister to you. A much younger sister, but a sister nonetheless." _Can you hear her?_

Gibson nodded. "In a way. If you think of people as having two layers of thinking, the stuff they put into words and the stuff that floats underneath, then I can sense all that underneath stuff. More like sensations. I can kind of tell when she's tired and when she's got lots of energy and stuff."

Monica gave a laugh. "I can tell too. She is pretty good about letting me know when she's feeling energetic."

As she entered her third trimester during late spring, she began to experience the discomforts of pregnancy, and started to understand the importance of being near a doctor, even if there was nothing that could be done to help with the heartburn, the dull and never ceasing backache, the hemorrhoids, the swelling in her feet and ankles, the swelling in her hands that made it impossible or her to remove her wedding ring. Walking anywhere exhausted her quickly. She felt like she had to visit the bathroom every fifteen minutes. Sleep was getting harder and harder to manage – when she wasn't suffering from insomnia, general discomfort was sure to keep her awake, and if not, Vera's kicking often did the trick.

Despite it all, Monica had never been happier in her life.

They had also never been so vulnerable in their lives.


	33. Chapter 33

Being pregnant was unpleasant enough. Being pregnant in Mexico during the summer was almost unbearable. But that's just how it was and there was nothing to change it other than giving birth, and Monica wasn't due for another three to four weeks.

John and Gibson would be at the garage for a few more hours. She had done her shopping in the morning, chatting with the old ladies at the market. Now the afternoon had begun and the temperature just kept climbing. It was time for a siesta, which John sometimes returned for, but today it was just too hot and humid to bear the thought of a warm body in the bed beside her, even if it was her husband, the father of the child she was carrying, and even if she still did love him with every fiber of her hot, bloated, miserable body.

She sat at the kitchen table underneath the ceiling fan – the only fan in the entire apartment – and wished that the ice cubes in the freezer would freeze faster. The sweat on her brow which had been a soft glaze during the morning, was now collecting and running down her face in heavy droplets that stung her eyes. Her shirt was stuck to her in various patches and her thighs were slippery with sweat. She tortured herself with thoughts of swimming pools and air conditioning and running around naked.

And then, somewhere in the haze of heat and exhaustion, she sensed something wasn't right. Her sweat-soaked skin broke out into goose bumps. All of her senses were suddenly heightened and she rose carefully, willing her body to be stronger and more dependable than it had proven in the last few months. She had just laid her hand on the handgun she kept in her duffel bag, when a footfall made its announcement.

"I would put that away."

Monica's body shook with another chill. Shannon McMahan. Supersoldier. Allegiance unknown. "I don't think I should," she said calmly, and turned around pointing her weapon at the intruder.

"I am not here to hurt you, and you know you cannot hurt me."

"I don't have any reason to trust you, and I'll do what I have to in order to slow you down."

Shannon smiled haughtily, it seemed to Monica. She pointed the gun towards the kitchen. "Why don't you take a seat?" The other woman shrugged and did as asked.

"Why are you here?" demanded Monica, who at that point was screaming to Gibson in her head, hoping he would hear her.

"I've only come to bring you news."

"Fucking good tidings, I bet."

"No, unfortunately not. But I have come to help you, to keep you safe. John is still at work?" Monica did not respond, only continued to give Shannon her steeliest gaze. "That is not how I wanted it. He needs to hear this too. But the people you should be fearing are coming, and I cannot waste time. Besides, I am sure you've already told the boy about your predicament."

"What do you mean, 'the people I should be fearing'?"

"Meaning, I am not your enemy, despite how badly you want to turn me into one. I am here to protect you."

"You realize I can't trust you."

"You need to, or you might not survive, the child you carry might not survive, and John might not either. The boy will be taken, and I cannot say what his fate will be."

"If you think you can scare me into believing you, you are wrong."

"Of course not. But I haven't got anything else to persuade you. I have no way to make you believe that the evidence I have is true, but I have to present it to you anyway, and leave you to decide your own fate."

"Why don't you start by telling me who is after us, and why, and who you are with."

"I am with them. So they think. But they want to bring about the end of the world, the plan to enable the alien invasion and occupation. I still remember what it was like to be human. I still feel a connection to humanity and will do what I can to help it in the war. And that means I cannot defect, that I must encourage them to think of me as being on their team, and that I must bring them down from the inside. Today is only one example out of hundreds in the last several years. Most of the reasons you have managed to remain undetected is because of me. My connection to John. They wanted me to follow him because I knew him best. I've been tracking you diligently, but they believe I have only found you a handful of times, and that the times I've gone after you, I've only just missed you.

"But things are changing right now. I've been demoted. They suspect my treason, but they have yet to accuse me outright. They were the ones who engineered your pregnancy." Shannon paused for dramatic effect.

"Engineered my pregnancy? Like Scully?" she asked, her mind racing to thoughts of half-alien babies, and telekinesis.

"Not like Dana Scully. She was part of the Great Experiment. Her child was the pinnacle of their success, until a warring faction realized his potential and deactivated him. He has been hidden, but he is of no use to anyone any longer.

"Your child is purely human. But she was created to slow you down, to make the game less attractive so that you might forfeit and hand the boy over to us. They were able to use the information I slowly leaked to them to track you to Villa Luz, where they switched your birth control with placebos. They were able to slow you down, to make you think twice, and to force you to leave records everywhere you went."

"We never thought twice," said Monica, too focused to wipe the dripping sweat away. "We agreed from the beginning that no matter what, we choose Gibson over us, and when I learned I was pregnant, we knew that even she would come second to him." Monica did not mention that her vision had come the day after she'd picked up the pills, that she had flushed them down the toilet the next day. She spoke to her child, so ensconced in her womb as to make mental telepathy and understanding very plausible, especially to a mother. _You were meant to be. Something greater than the Great Experiment, something greater than the designs of secret global organizations. You were meant to be._

It was then that John burst in, with Gibson right behind him. "You got five seconds to explain why you are here before I blow your head off."

And so she began. She told them everything she'd already told Monica, and then she explained what they would need to do to be safe. She pulled a file from the messenger bag slung across her shoulder. "There's a map of a village deep in the forest of the Quintana Roo. It will not be easy to get to, and I cannot guarantee there will be many people living there. It is one of the few places in Mexico that has not been publicly explored and documented. No one will know you are there, but me. And that is where you must trust me. I will come for you when the time is right, when you and your family and the boy are no longer in danger."

She slid opened the map and slid it across the table. Monica looked while John kept his gun on Shannon. "There is nothing there," said Monica.

"That is the point. The navigational marking is written there, 19.28764,-87.841187. Do you have a GPS system? You will need one. There will probably be no roads anywhere within miles of the village. There may not be any sign you are there until you walk in and find a cluster of huts.

"It will not be easy, it will not be comfortable. But it will keep you safe from those who want you harmed in order to get the boy. And I wish I could give you another two months, so that you might deliver your child in the safety of a hospital," said Shannon, still assuming the date of conception to be based on the birth control ruse, "but a hospital will only offer you medicine, not security. The moment you step foot into a hospital, anywhere in the country, anywhere in middle American, they will know and they will be there within hours. This is the only way.

"You can trust me or not. Either way, I urge you to leave within the next few minutes."

John and Monica looked at one another, trying to decide if they should lower their weapons, and if they should trust their captive.

"If you aren't sure you believe me, ask the boy." She nodded at Gibson. He closed his eyes.

"She is different to read. I don't know if she can be like them, if she can block her thoughts and manipulate them."

"No, Gibson, I am not like them. I was a human who was made into something greater, but only in the physical sense."

"I think she is telling the truth. I think we can trust her. Plus, she is right that there are others coming, and that they think they will be the first to reach us. Their thoughts are crowding the air. They will be here soon."

"The time is near," said Shannon. "For you, your child, and for the world. I will come for you when it is safe. Trust no one until then." She rose and walked out the door. Two and a half minutes later, they followed, and began the next step of their journey.


	34. Chapter 34

"Ok," said John, driving down the road at a fast clip, his tires spitting up clouds of white dust, "We head back to the Yucatan, if we trust her. What's in the folder?"

Monica was sorting through pages of pages of documents, trying to make sense of everything. "She's right. They have been tracking us. Pato, Sitio Viejo, Calla de Campos… John, everywhere we've been in the last two years is here. There are a hundred towns on the list. Even the village where we were married." She flipped through a few more pages, nervously. "Gibson's medical records. Mine. It's not complete, but she wasn't lying about their tracking us so diligently. Nothing though about the times when we were "

She placed a hand on her stomach. The surge of fear she'd experienced with Shannon had woken Vera up, and she hadn't yet stopped kicking Monica in the ribs. "You ok?" asked John, putting his hand over hers.

"Yeah," said Monica, her voice thick with exhaustion, "She's just been going nonstop for a while now. Sometimes I think she's going to break one of my rib."

"I don't like this, Mon. It's too hard on you."

"I'm fine, really. If I need you to stop, I'll let you know. But as soon as Gibson gives us the all clear, we're going to need to stop for a bathroom break." She tried to smile reassuringly.

As they drove, she read through the notes Shannon had given them to get to their destination. They would need to trade in the truck, which was not necessarily a bad thing if they were being followed so closely, and get something even more rugged. "Hatchet, hand saw, machete, hunting knife, rope, shovel, camp stove, blankets, tents, stove, storm-proof matches, extra gasoline, water purification tablets. We've got a lot of this already. She says also that we should take as circuitous a route as we can manage to get there so that they aren't aware of our destination. No hotels, no motels, no interactions with anyone outside of the absolutely necessary. Buy supplies early, spend rest of travel time stamping out your trail, she wrote."

They did as advised and travelled as randomly as they could, and never once did Gibson sense that anyone was on to them. Eight days later, they entered the Yucatan, and the next day, they closed the Mexican road atlas and opened up the map with which Shannon had provided them.

The drive was treacherous from the get go. It was painfully obvious that this road had not been used in a very long time. 34.7 miles to traverse before reaching the marker. Gibson and John would spend each day clearing a path for the truck, about a quarter mile at a time, always on their guard against the predators that hunted in the woods they were invading. They both kept shotguns slung on their backs and tried their best to carry on a conversation to deter any animals from coming too close. Monica was confined to the truck and its near vicinity. She napped when she could.

Nightfall meant starting up a fire for protection and heating up something for dinner. They played cards and worked their way through the trivia game Monica had added to the list of supplies. Sometimes the conversations would fall back to the reality of their lives – supersoldiers, aliens, the never ending danger of being a fugitive.

By the fourth day, they had managed to travel just over 30 miles. Had Monica not been pregnant, John would have had them just walk the rest of the way, but as it was, she would never make it by nightfall, and he wasn't sure she would make it at all.

Gibson had been sleeping in the cab at night, while John and Monica took the back, which was more crowded than normal. He'd laid plywood down on the ridged metal floor, but there's was little they could do to increase their comfort. She didn't sleep well. She hurt, all the time. But the night before, the pains in her back had become so severe she'd had to wake up John to get her some acetaminophen. He'd rubbed her back for her, and she pretended to fall asleep so that he could get rest.

The next morning, as they worked on clearing the way for the last five miles, her back continued to spasm with pain. Eventually it dawned on her what might be going on, and she pulled the tattered Spanish copy of What to Expect When Your Expecting, Que Esperar Cuando Se Esta Esperando. Back pain, back labor. No contractions yet, at least, she thought, but it wasn't five more minutes later when she felt the first cramping sensations tighten around her pelvis. She looked out at the road, watching as John hauled a large section of a fallen tree off to the side. Gibson looked at her and she shook her head. _Don't tell him yet. And try to keep him occupied. It will be a while. I'd rather we get a little further on. Maybe we can still make it tonight. _

Gibson didn't think that was a possibility. But he could play along. And when John suggested that they break for lunch, he claimed to have more energy and the desire to work another hour, when in actuality he hated this kind of work and wanted nothing more than to stop for a while. But finally John could go no further, and wiped a dirty hand across his forehead. "Gotta eat, kid. You can keep working like a madman, but I'm old and I need a break."

"You're back still hurting you, Mon?" he asked when he got back to the truck. She nodded. The pain was intense and she knew if she spoke, he would hear it in her voice. He kissed her. "When I finish fixing up lunch, I'll come give you another back massage, ok? We're almost there, maybe three more miles. Definitely by tomorrow night we should be able to make things more comfortable for you."

By tomorrow night, she realized, they would be holding Vera in their arms.

She was trying to stay out of John's sight. But it didn't stop Gibson from looking up in her direction more and more often, until finally John noticed. "What's wrong?" he asked, a little bit nervous when he couldn't see her. Gibson felt trapped. She didn't want him to say anything, even now, and he didn't want to have to keep such a secret. So he bit his tongue and decided that John could go see for himself.

He came across her, leaning with her head resting on her arms against the truck. She tilted her head and looked at him, and he could see quite clearly that she was in more pain than he had noticed before. He didn't need to ask.

"I'm going to start a fire, ok? Do you want to lie down?" She shook her head and closed her eyes. "Has your water broken?" She shook her head again.

He felt great panic, despite having spent weeks mentally prepping himself for this, the possibility of their child being born out here, far away from other people. He'd poured over Monica's pregnancy book, but it wasn't exactly helpful when it came to instructions on how to deliver a baby. Monica had teased him and said that he could just ask her, which he did, and she told him everything she remembered about delivering William.

They still had another five hours of daylight, but eventually they would need to move back into the safe confines of the truck. If Gibson could be a lookout though during the night, he could probably pitch a tent instead and give them a little more room. He pulled out the kit they'd put together for this – clean blankets, towels, soap and hand sanitizer. He grabbed a few containers of water and the big cooking pot.

Monica moved to the blanket he'd laid out before the fire when her labor pains had subsided enough, and sat on the ground in the closest thing to a lotus position she could manage. She breathed slowly and deeply, calming her body but willing it strength, and doing her best to stay calm for herself and for Vera.


	35. Chapter 35

The night passed and her labor progressed, but slowly. She didn't want to be in the truck, claiming to want to be in the open air, but John talked her into a tent, so that they could at least avoid smaller ground visitors who weren't scared off by the low moans. He sat with her through the night, rubbing her back, listening to her pain filled moans, wishing there was anything he could do. He urged her to rest, to try to sleep, but she could get no respite from the pain.

By the time morning began to creep into their enclosure, her contractions were still just three minutes apart and she was only a few centimeters dilated, as best as John could tell. This is why they needed to be near a hospital. He suggested that they do just that, the road behind them was more manageable, and they could be in a safe facility with drugs and proper medical care. She looked terrible and it terrified him.

"No drugs," she said. "Even if we were free to do as we liked, I would have chosen a midwife and natural childbirth."

He wanted to tell her how strong she was, and also how strong-headed she was. But this was obviously not the time or place.

Now that the sun was out, Monica could no longer stand the confines of the tent, and he helped her back to the spot beside the fire. Gibson opened up a can of fruit and passed out some granola bars for breakfast. No one seemed to be hungry. Monica kept shaking her head at food, but John insisted until she could pull herself out of her focused state for a little while. "You need to keep up your strength. You've hardly eaten in the last 24 hours."

Gibson had just crushed down the can and was about to drop it in the garbage sack when something very unexpected, but very much welcomed, came in to his field of perception.

"Someone's coming," he said, looking further down the road.

"Who?" asked John.

"I… I'm not sure. I…" Gibson was speechless for a while.

John was about ready to throw his wife and the boy into the truck and peel out of there. "Are we safe?"

"He… I think he's like me," said Gibson, his mouth slack as his mind tried to take such an event in. "He's looking for us. He knows we're in trouble."

Never, in all his 17 years, had he come across another human like himself. This man, however, did not speak English or Spanish, Gibson tried, and he was left to communicate with pure emotions, all the feelings that lay beneath the words. He wasn't very good at it, but he pressed images of Monica in labor into the man's mind, and felt him start to run in response. Gibson walked towards the end of the clearing, almost in a spell.

When he appeared from the brush, he stopped and took it all in. Two of them, a man and a woman obviously about to have a child. He knew their kind but had rarely interacted with them. And the man who stood before him, who didn't look a thing like him, but had the ability to speak without words. They, in turn, stared at him, a Mayan man, wearing very little in the heat of the jungle.

He spoke to the couple, but they did not understand his words, so he tried the young man again, and he nodded and spoke to the couple for him.

"I think he wants us to follow him. To his village. I think there's someone there who can help."

"We're still at least two miles away," said John. "Monica, do you think you can do this?"

"Walking is good," she managed to say. "Just don't let go of me."

John and Gibson threw everything into the truck and locked it up. They would come back for it later. They trekked slowly through the jungle, stopping every few minutes as Monica's contractions overcame her. It was another hour before they arrived at the village. The walking had done her good, and her contractions were now about a minute apart.

She could barely take in the fact that they had a welcoming committee. Nearly two dozen men and women had gathered to see the three strangers enter. A smiling woman with few teeth came towards them and took Monica's hand, patting it maternally.

"She's going to help you, Monica," said Gibson, who felt faint from the overwhelming amount of minds that were connecting with his, asking questions, throwing in images and ideas that he could barely keep straight. He turned it off, and realized that it was completely silent in the village, with only the sound of monkeys and birds in the air, and Monica's heavy breathing.

Monica looked at the woman and felt completely safe. The woman led her into a hut made of thin trees and a grass roof. John still held tight to her arm, and was ready to fight if they tried to make him leave. He wasn't going to miss the birth of his daughter. But surprisingly, the woman, and the three other women who followed, all seemed perfectly comfortable with his presence. One of them went about making tea, while the first woman they met took on the role of midwife, pulling out a grass mat and a little wooden stool, indicating to Monica that she should sit.

She pressed her belly all over, and seemed satisfied with the position of the baby, smiling at Monica with her toothless smile. When Monica's next contraction hit, she watched closely, and nodded when it was over. She asked her questions, but Monica shook her head, too exhausted to even try to understand. She looked to John, who called for Gibson, who stood outside the hut and refused to go in.

Gibson wanted to help with this delivery even less than he wanted to help them when they were in the middle of an argument. But John was too panicky to care, so he swallowed down the bile that was climbing up his throat, and spoke. "Water? Is there water? Oh god. That's disgusting." He sunk down on the ground and put his hands over his head. The things he could see and understand when he went listening made him never ever want to know more about childbirth.

John tried to explain to the woman that Monica's water hadn't broken, but the midwife didn't care to wait for the crude attempts at communicating. She began to pull at Monica's clothes until John helped her. The midwife wasted no time in starting the examination. The women stood around watching, but no one said anything. One went out and soon returned with a smooth stick, which the midwife stuck in the fire for a few minutes, then pulled out, whittled down, and smoothed into a dull point. Next thing Monica knew, two of the women hoisted her up, the midwife inserted the stick, her waters broke, and she was racked by another contraction. When it was over, the midwife felt inside, and nodded with approval.


	36. Chapter 36

Another hour passed. Monica shifted from guttural moans to cries of pain, but she was almost entirely unaware of anything going on around her. John knew he was useless, and that there was absolutely nothing that could be done to speed up the process or make it less painful, but he did what he could to encourage her, to wipe the sweat from her brow, to urge her to push. Finally, the head crowned, and then a face appeared, and the midwife took the head in her hands, giving Vera a twist, so that the rest of the body slipped out into her experienced hands. She grabbed the tiny feet and hoisted her into the arm, pulling a glob of mucus from the baby's mouth, and smiled triumphantly as the little girl began to wail. She tied the umbilical cord and severed the physical bond between mother and daughter, handing the wet, shriveled, red-faced, bawling infant to her crying mother and father.

There are moments in life that can never be properly expressed by mere words, no matter how great the writer. Many have tried, all have failed. This inexpressible joy and elation overtook Monica and John as they held their daughter, watching her large eyes open and close, trying to focus on them, seeing her arms and finger flail out from the sudden change in environment, crying from discomfort as her wet skin began to dry, opening her mouth and finding it fill with air until her mother put her to her breast. She suckled like millions of years of evolution had prepared her to do, drawing a few thick drops of colostrum.

When it was all over, the placenta expelled and Monica cleaned up and deposited in a hammock in the midwife's hut, Gibson wandered back in at Monica's exhausted urging. He'd long since retreated to a hut filled with old men who stared at him with curiosity, and tried to communicate with him. It was uncomfortable, but far better than being dragged into the delivery again. Now he walked in, grabbed by John into a hug that lifted him from the ground and filled him with embarrassment. Once released, he went to Monica's side. She placed a hand on his face, too tired to speak or even think. She thought to him to take the bundled infant, but he shook his head. "I'll drop her."

John was soon there to assist, and placed Vera into his nervous arms. He slipped into her mind immediately, awash in a sea of newborn feelings. Mostly she was tired, just like her mother, and he held her until her heavy eyes finally closed in sleep.

"Everyone wants to see her," he said when John took her back. "John, they're all old."

"A dying population?"

"Kind of. I think something happened to their children. But I don't understand what."

"We can worry about that later." He started to step outside to see the crowd for himself, but the midwife caught his arm and held him back, putting thoughts into Gibson's head so he could explain.

"Vera has to stay with Monica."

John nodded, even though he didn't understand. He didn't mind the chance to stay inside and sit holding his daughter. But he was bursting with pride and for lack of anyone else around, he was eager to show her off and see other people admire her as he did.

"Can they come in? If they can read minds like you, can you tell them that? Let them know it's ok?"

"They can read your mind too," said Gibson, as a few people wandered in.

They quietly huddled around John, taking looks at Monica as she slept, petting the baby's cheeks and hair reverently. They smiled and a few said things to her that Gibson translated as compliments and endearments. "I don't think they've seen a baby in a very long time."

The midwife put all three of them up for the night in the hut she shared with her husband, an elderly man who had difficulties walking and getting into his hammock. In the middle of the night, there was a noise and John woke immediately. The midwife was standing near the door, holding a lamp, as three men brought in a woman who looked like she was a hundred years old, but was probably only 80. Her skin hung loose over her bones, her eyes were sunken deep into her skull, and her lips were tight over her toothless gums. John rolled out of his hammock and stood by Monica's side. The woman was brought over and the midwife shook Monica awake.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"I'm not sure. Maybe she just wants to see Vera?"

Monica tried to sit up, but winced when she moved. John took the baby in his hands, taking a moment to cuddle her tiny body and kiss her downy head before kneeling at the old woman's side and showing her the baby.

She had no strength to move, but a serenity passed over her face. Her hand jerked, but her arms were too weak to lift them. One of the men picked it up for her and placed it on Vera's head and then her chest. She seemed content and the men picked up her and took her back out.

"What do you think that was?" asked John, still cradling his daughter.

"A blessing, perhaps. It was so solemn."

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I just gave birth." He smiled at her, pleased that she at least felt well enough to tease him.

"I don't want to put her down."

"I understand that feeling."


	37. Chapter 37

The midwife came over and clucked her tongue, pushing John towards Monica.

"I think she wants to go back to bed," he said. He reluctantly put Vera back into his wife's arms and kissed them both.

In the morning, John and Gibson sat on the floor eating the breakfast of tea and some unidentifiable substance wrapped in a tortilla-like cover, and Monica lay resting but awake in her hammock, which was the only one still left out.

"Do they understand that we may need to stay for a while?" he asked Gibson. The boy shrugged. "All I can say for sure is that they don't seem threatened by us and no one seems to think we should move on. They might need us. A lot of them have images of me and you going out into the woods and taking over hunting and repairing huts. All the heavy lifting."

John regarded the midwife's husband, who certainly looked like his hunting days were over. The old man spoke and pointed to a small collection of weapons hung against the wall.

"There's some sort of wild pig in the forest that he likes, but he can't run fast enough to catch one any more. I think he wants you to do that. In exchange for staying here."

"We could build our own hut," he said.

Gibson was just about to try to explain why they could not, when Monica spoke up. "I think I remember reading about this. Mayan culture operates around the principle of hot and cold, some sort of temperature thing, but not necessarily physical. Babies are hot, I think. And to remove them from their place of birth, or maybe it was the safety of the hut, is to expose them to cold elements which are not good for them. It's basically a quarantine for mother and child, similar to Jewish and Muslim cultures, but less severe. Does that sound about right, Gibson?"

He nodded. Most of what was being thrown at him by the villagers was too hard for him to decipher and understand, but it made more sense when Monica explained it.

Gibson and John were planning on going back to the truck for some basic supplies – they would continue clearing the path when John felt he could bear to spend a whole day away from his wife and child. He wanted to get the acetaminophen for her pain, but she assured him she was fine. "I think there is some sort of serious narcotic in the tea she keeps giving me. I've tried to explain that I don't want it, because I don't want it going on to Vera, but she keeps pressing it back into my hands and rubbing Vera on the back, as if the tea is good for her too. But it's good stuff."

Before they could set out, however, there was a rush of movement in the village, and the midwife took off too. John and Gibson stood outside the hut, watching as people moved in the direction of a hut across the way.

"Someone is dying," said Gibson.

"Probably the old woman who came last night," said John, understanding now why she'd been brought to see them. Her time was almost at an end. It didn't feel right, suddenly, to go traipsing off, so they hunkered down again, John and Gibson taking turns holding Vera while Monica continued to try to catch up on her sleep.

A chorus of wailing woke her up, and she blinked heavily.

"She died," said Gibson. "They are all very sad." It was stating the obvious, but he didn't know what else to say.

Another hour passed and the crying died down, but not entirely. Finally, someone came to the hut, an older man that they recognized from Vera's receiving line. He motioned that Gibson and John follow him. "I think he wants us to dig the grave."

John ended up doing most of the work. He responded well to having such a solemn purpose and even he could tell that the villagers appreciated his efforts. The same men who had brought her to the hut during the night, now brought her to the gravesite at the far end of the village. She was wrapped in cotton blankets and a man dressed in ceremonial garb stood chanting over her. A kernel of corn and a small bead were placed in her mouth and then the men took hold of the corners of the blanket on which she lay and lowered her into the grave. They sprinkled a red dust over her corpse and the wailing began anew. The villagers began the sad business of burying the body. It was only then that John realized he was crying and holding tight to Gibson's shoulder.

They settled into their new routine, spending an hour or two every day clearing the road from the opposite direction, until they reached the truck and could drive it closer. They helped with tilling the fields and bringing in baskets of crops that the men filled but were often not strong enough to carry back full. They climbed on top of huts and helped rethatch the grass roofs. Their first venture into the woods to hunt went poorly when John tried to show how helpful a gun was, but the noise only scared off the other game. He really wasn't sure he wanted to go all caveman, hunting in a loincloth and carrying a spear, no matter how much the midwife's husband wanted wild pig.

Monica was eager to get back up, as soon as her body had done its initial healing. The hut was too cramped, and she hated the confines of living in someone else's house, even though the midwife, Araceli, doted on her and Vera. She spent a lot of time just sitting outside, Vera at her breast, wondering how it was her life had become so surreal. Four years ago, she was a g-woman, a career that suited her perfectly, that gave her life meaning and purpose. She was living in a beautiful apartment in Washington, DC, dressing professionally, longing for John to finally admit that he loved her. She cared about her hair, her makeup. She kept in touch with a multitude of friends. She had a mother and father thousands of miles away that she spoke to on a regular basis.

Now she was living in a jungle on the Yucatan peninsula, wearing a traditional huipil and a skirt, her hair long and mostly unkempt, John's child in her arms, circumstance limiting her family to three other people. She longed for an ice cold Coca-Cola. She wondered what had become of Mulder and Scully, if they were still on the run, searching for the truth, uncovering more governmental secrets. She smiled down at her daughter, attacking her with kisses, and knew that she didn't really miss her old life at all, no matter how bizarre the new one was. Having John and especially Vera made it all worthwhile.


	38. Chapter 38

When Vera was 20 days old, the villagers threw a party in celebration, dancing and singing, and each taking turns to present her with a gift. Everyone wanted to hold her, for she represented something to them that they thought they'd lost.

Monica and John were beginning to pick up the basics of the language, able to communicate simple concepts – hunger, thirst, fatigue, pain. They did not need to use these words, of course, for everyone was perfectly capable of reading their thoughts, but it was helpful in understanding how everyone else felt, so that Gibson did not have to act as their constant translator.

The party was not just in honor of Vera's birth and the fact that she was healthy and thriving, but it was also to mark their acceptance into the village. They understood that they would be there for a while, until Shannon, a woman they mysteriously new, reappeared. The village was scattered with empty huts, and for the last week, John and Gibson had been working under the eye of several elders repairing two of them. For all he hated being out in the jungle, so far away from civilization, the thought of having his own place helped Gibson's mood a little. He would be further away from the nighttime cries of the baby, the hushed voices of John and Monica as they tried to speak softly enough to not wake him, the snoring of the midwife's husband, and the eventual and inevitable return of John and Monica's lovemaking, which he understood from John's mind would still be several months away, thankfully.

Well into the night the party continued. Those who were able danced, and those who were not often found the strength to get up for a few minutes to participate in rituals they never thought they'd witness again. Some sort of alcoholic beverage was passed around – Monica suspected it was made from fermented corn. It tasted terrible, but it quickly produced a nice buzz. A few drops were put in Vera's mouth, for corn was life, and alcohol was happiness.

When they retreated for the night, to their own home, as a family, John and Monica curled up in a hammock together, the first time they were allowed to. Vera slept in a wooden cradle, hung from the rafters, close enough for Monica to rock her when she fussed or pick her up when she was hungry or needed a diaper change.

"Do you think that Shannon might have sent us here for more than just our safety?" John asked Monica as a plump three month-old Vera sat in his lap, chewing her fist. "I mean, she must have known that they would be like Gibson. She must have wanted us to see this for ourselves. Maybe it's a clue, or something bigger."

"You think she's that concerned with us? I worry every day that she is only setting us up. I don't trust her."

"But you do trust her. You must or you wouldn't have agreed to come."

"I wasn't sure we had a choice. But I wonder if we should leave on our own."

"Well, I'm giving her the benefit of the doubt. I mean, we were in the same unit. That's a bond that isn't easily broken. She still seems so much like the Shannon I knew back then."

"Ok. So, say she did want us to come here for a reason, greater than our protection. We know that they are like Gibson, so the God Module is turned on in all them. And if we follow Mulder's premise, then these people are the missing link to the aliens, just like he believes Gibson is. Therefore, if they are the missing link, then there must be something about the aliens for us to learn." She stopped to make faces at Vera so that she would giggle.

"And then there's the mystery of where everyone under the age of 60 went, and why, and when this happened. Did they leave of their own free will? Did they grow disenchanted with their lives, did they choose to leave the jungle for the urban centers? Or were they taken, was the evidence removed by the aliens, as they tried to do to Gibson?"

"So you've thought about this a little?" he asked, smiling.

"A little. Also, they know that we think about it, they know we know something is unusual, yet they do not try to explain. If Gibson knows, and I think he might know more than he realizes, then he's not saying anything. But I am curious, and as soon as I can speak the language well enough, I do plan on asking."

A few weeks later, they got another piece of the puzzle. There was another ceremony, one tied with the harvest. Ornate baskets were filled with corn, while the shaman danced over the baskets, chanting. The baskets were loaded onto the strongest men and women's backs, including John and Gibson's. Monica, as a new mother, was given only Vera to carry in her sling.

"It's for their gods," said Gibson. The last four months had been truly enlightening to him. They recognized him as one of their own, despite his appearance, and they spent a great amount of time helping him train his mind to focus better and both understand and transmit ideas more easily without using language to convey anything. "We're going to the pyramid."

"The pyramid?" asked John, slightly flabbergasted. "I've been walking out here for months. I think I would have noticed pyramid."

"No… it's further away. It's a long walk. And I think it's falling apart. It doesn't look all that impressive in their minds, but it's holy to them."

They walked for nearly two hours, further into the jungle than even John had ever been. There were many breaks, and one man put down his load and started to walk back, the others redistributing the maize into their own baskets.

But finally it came into view. It was overgrown with vines and brush, and the top had obviously caved in on itself hundreds of years earlier. They moved to a slightly elevated area and began to pile the contents of the baskets into the center.

"The gods take the… essence… of the corn," said Gibson slowly, struggling to both understand and explain. "And in the spring, they return to collect what is left, if anything, and plant it in the field to remind the gods that they remembered them, and that the gods need to return the favor."

"John," said Monica, "Look at this." She was squatting on the ground, Vera tied to her back, and was pulling away a few straggling vines. It was a carving of a Mayan, its finer details worn away by the passage of time. "They're all along the base. Oh, look at this one," she exclaimed, tearing away at the vines with great ferocity. "It's the Mayan astronaut."

John gave her a skeptical look.

"That's one of the primary theories about alien/human contact. Can you make out the circle around his head?" She traced it delicately with her finger. "That is supposedly his helmet. There's a famous tomb of a king, a god-king, that believers claim shows the him operating some sort of space craft. I'm not convinced, but many believers are. We need to come back here sometime, if they'll let us. I want to see what all is here."

John knelt beside her and gave the carving a good long stare, but couldn't make much out of it. The shaman came over to them, smiling broadly. "You want to know what they mean?" he asked.

"Who is he?" asked Monica, pointing to the astronaut

He said a word she did not understand, and which Gibson could not translate. "I don't think he's from outer space, Monica," Gibson said. "Just a god or something."

The shaman was not deterred by the communication difficulties, but continued to walk with them a ways, explaining even when they did not understand.

He talked of various myths, stories of feuding brothers, angry kings, the sun and moon. There were creation tales of how mountains and trees and animals and men came to be. And lastly, there were tales of monsters from the sky. The shaman looked at them with a knowing smile as he spoke, watching their faces take in the information, listening to their minds make the connections to things that they strangely already know.

The villagers were just as perplexed about the knowledge that their guests had brought with them. That they knew Shannon was perhaps the least surprising, for she was tall and pale skinned and resembled their appearance enough that it was easy to associate them with her.


	39. Chapter 39

All three of their guests seemed to think an awful lot about being found out by a multitude of people, and the young man was especially concerned with beings from the sky coming after him. They were not altogether unfamiliar with this idea, but Gibson feared them more than the villagers did.

Gibson knew their differences in opinion about the aliens, and more importantly, the fact that the villagers thought of them as gods to be respected and honored. They did not speak – or think – on the subject often. The villagers pitied Gibson for his fear, and he felt sorry that they didn't understand how truly evil they were.

The shaman had no problem allowing them to visit the pyramid on their own, and Monica would often drag them off into the forest. She would spend hours, with Vera tied to her back, pulling down vines and shoveling away centuries of dirt, sketching into a notebook what was decipherable. She longed for a research library, but made do with the shaman's stories, which she recorded along with the illustrations as best she could.

John would watch her, sitting at a makeshift desk, long into the night, silently pouring over her notes, with just an little oil lamp to light her work. She was so beautiful when she was focused.

Vera was sleeping in his arms – he was rarely able to put her down. "Monica," he said, and she looked over at him, her reading glasses perched on her nose, "Why didn't you keep at your studies? Didn't you once tell me you wanted to get your Ph.D. and teach?"

She pushed her glasses onto her head. "Why did I chose the FBI instead of Academia? The short answer is, it felt right. But you want the long answer?" He nodded.

"Well, I had thought for years, since some point in high school, that I would study religion. I was particularly interested in how Catholicism had impacted the native religious systems in Mexico. It resonated with how Catholicism had impacted myself and my beliefs. I was interested in how religions grew and developed, and especially how they evolved into other religions or how they were able to be eradicated or engulfed in some cases.

"Brown was particularly beneficial in that I was able to take only the classes that served my purposes, so I was able to completely focus on my field of study, and it really began to eclipse everything else in my life. It seemed only natural that I would continue on. I was happy with my subject, and I could easily imagine making it my life's work.

"At the end of my fourth year, just as I was finishing my Master's, I went with my friends to the job fair, more because I wanted to get out of my apartment for an hour than anything else. I walked through the booths for a while, but I wasn't looking for me. Cynthia started talking to someone from Boeing, which went well with her engineering degree, and Ellen found a company which was very interested in her Russian skills, since they're home offices were in Moscow. She ended up accepting a job with them before she graduated and flew out soon after." She stopped talking for a moment, for she had gotten far off track, mentally, and needed to compose her thoughts again.

"So, they were both talking to people, and I was not interested in anything there, and I slipped out to grab a smoke. There was already a man out there, smoking away, and he offered me a cigarette, which I had to accept since I was a starving student and cigarettes were one of my more expensive budget items. It was a Morley, and I was hooked on the brand after that.

"We smoked in silence for a little bit, until the nicotine began to calm our nerves. He asked me if I had had any luck in the job fair, and I told him that I wasn't actually looking. Then he explained that he was with the FBI and that at the very least, since he'd given me a cigarette, I should do him the favor of visiting the booth and at least hearing what they had to offer. I said I wouldn't mind at all, since it would help kill some time, and who could really resist the allure of the FBI? I was certainly curious about it, even if I had already decided such a career was not for me.

"But when I went inside and started talking to them – it was a younger man and a woman – I started to get a little interested. They seemed impressed with my major, and talked to me about all the ways religion played a role in crimes and crime solving. I walked away with a pretty hefty pile of reading material, and by the time graduation rolled around, I had made a major life change. I enrolled at Quantico and was accepted, and was utterly surprised at how nicely it fit.

"The strangest thing, though, was that I never saw that man again. I even asked the agents at the job fair and they told me they had no other colleagues with them, and they didn't seem at all familiar with him when I described him. I decided in time that I had received a sign. Perhaps he was just some random man, a little bored himself, having a little fun with me, or perhaps he was put there by something greater, but whatever it was, it lead me to the career I was meant to have. And it lead me to you. And now it's lead me to Vera. And one day, it's going to lead us to something even greater. All because a man offered me a cigarette and told me to talk to the FBI."

She got up and came over to them, taking her sleeping daughter from her husband's arms and placing her in the cradle. "It's been a long time," she said to John.

"Just seven months, Mon. I understand it takes a long time to get your sex drive back."

"I think it's been long enough," she said, kissing him long enough to get his attention.

"I'm not so sure about making love in a hammock."

"Me either. I guess there's only one way to find out how that works."

"And what are we supposed to do about birth control?"

"Maybe you haven't noticed, but my periods haven't yet returned, since I'm breastfeeding. It's suppressing ovulation. I should be safe until I stop breastfeeding her. And anyway, there was only one child in my vision, so I think we're ok."

John was more than eager to agree with her. And they were both pleased to find that the hammock didn't get in their way at all.


	40. Chapter 40

When Gibson came over for breakfast the next morning, he immediately regretted popping into their heads. "Oh god," he muttered to himself.

Monica looked up bemused as she chopped enough yucca root for half the village. "Sticking your mind where it doesn't belong again?"

He was able to ignore her, for as soon as Vera saw him, she tossed away her teething ring and crawled on fat, determined legs and arms right up to him, sitting on her rump at his feet, grabby hands reaching up to him. Her mind was much nicer and he picked her up, taking her over to her bag where he pulled out the teething cream and applied it to the exact spot that was bothering her, mindful of the teeth she already had.

She and Gibson had a special bond. All of the villagers, of course, knew her needs in ways her parents could not detect, but she was not aware of that, as they usually just passed her off to her parents who took care of her. It was all the same to her. She wanted very little and was rarely stressed or anxious. But the villagers rarely played with her, the merely coddled her and patted her and gave her little treats, a small taste of cacao, or sweetened goat's milk. Gibson played with her, just like her parents, but he was far better at it, knowing whether she wanted to play peek-a-boo or be tickled or tossed in the air, and never playing with her more than she liked, as her parents sometimes did, which would drive her to tears.

She wriggled from restlessness and he plopped her back down and watched her repeat her actions with John, though this time as she reached up to him, she called out a string of da's, "Dadadadada."

"She wants you to pick her up," Gibson said with a smirk.

"So grateful you're here to interpret this for me," John said sarcastically, scooping her up into his arms and blowing a raspberry on her fat stomach, eliciting a peel of laughter.

After the food had been distributed to those who were unable to cook for themselves, and breakfast eaten, Gibson left to go spend time with the men of the village. For the last several months, they'd been teaching him how to control his mind in ways he hadn't realized were possible. He now understood why it was there was so little he could glean from them. It wasn't simply a matter of language; they were capable of closing their thoughts to others. When he came to them, they explained, his mind was bleeding out all of its contents. Monica had tried for years to convince him of the benefits of yoga and meditation, but he'd scoffed at that and rarely played along. Now, he was sitting with a half dozen elderly men, doing very much the same thing. But where Monica worked to completely clear her mind, he had to work at controlling exactly what he was thinking in one part of his brain and what he was thinking in another. The exercises left him mentally exhausted, but now, after four months of practice, he was beginning to get the hang of it and gain approval from the villagers.

They were secretive still, but of the three, they trusted him the most. What they did share with him, they warned him to keep secret. John and Monica, though they were generally liked by the population and found to be useful, were still considered to be outsiders. Monica's interest in their religion and mythology was treated with kindness, but not entirely indulged and John mental obsession with monsters form the sky that resembled their myths thankfully never seemed to move from his mind to his lips.

Gibson knew that the information that he had gathered would be of great interest to Monica and John, but he liked having something that belonged entirely to himself. They were in no hurry and it didn't matter whether he shared now or after they left, for their lives were in a holding pattern until Shannon came to retrieve them.

Summer was beating down on them again, and their trips to the pyramid were growing less and less frequent due to the midday heat. Still, there was much that Monica hadn't yet documented, and she'd just found a calendar on the previous trip that she wanted to examine more.

"The Mayan calendar ends on December 21, 2012," she explained to John. "A lot of people take this to mean that the world is going to end, though some see it as a period of rebirth. But in actuality, it just means that this particular astrological phase, or great cycle, is ending."


	41. Chapter 41

Gibson knew the true significance of the date, for he had known longer than Mulder. If there was any piece of knowledge he had ever picked up in his life that he wished he'd never learned, this was it. He wandered off, letting them bore each other with talk of Mayan prophesies.

Things had gotten lax as far as his bodyguards went. It was a combination of living in the jungle for so long, his age, his reasonable skills with a gun, and of course the baby. They didn't panic half so much when he was out of sight, but he was always good to say something or give Monica a particular nod. The ruins were fascinating the first twenty times they'd visited them, but now he was back to a virulent strain of ennui, a word that Monica had taught him. He climbed up to one of the safest points and leaned against the stones, resting his eyes in the midmorning heat, falling into a light slumber, not aware of a visitor.

Shannon stood in the brush, watching for a long time, John and Monica talked about the pyramid, until John took the baby from Monica, leaving her to work. She understood what John could see in her. Boy did she ever. Long brown hair, spilling down her back, the ends resting on the ground where she sat. The long, thin graceful arms, bearing a nice tan. A bird cried out and Monica looked up with a smile, as though the jungle wasn't full of bird songs and she'd never heard one before. Yes, she was a beautiful woman. They had taken a lot from Shannon to make her a supersoldier, but they had not been able to completely destroy her appreciation of the female form and desire for women.

"I don't like you," said Gibson, standing behind her.

"You are not as stealthy as you think you are. I been listening to your approach for the last five minutes."

"You shouldn't think those things about Monica."

"Bug off, kid."

"I'm going to go get John."

"As well you should. You know why I'm here."

He did his best to pour out his dislike through his glare and then turned around to head back to John. At least they would be able to leave now.

Shannon made her way to Monica, who looked up when she approached.

"I almost took you for a local. This life seems to do you good," she said, betraying very little of the hunger in her mind, but it was enough to make Monica pause before disregarding as ludicrous the possibility that Shannon McMahon was attracted to her.

"It does have it's advantageous. I take it you have news for us. Good news, perhaps?"

"We'll talk back at the village. I just wanted to see what you thought of the pyramid. It's not as spectacular as it must have been thousands of years ago."

"Do you know more about it?"

"Oh yes," she answered with finality. She wasn't going to explain more.

John approached, tense and distrustful, with Gibson holding Vera behind him.

"Relax John, I've just returned as I said I would."

"You took your sweet time."

"I've done as much as I can to give you more freedom, but I haven't been entirely successful. We'll discuss that back in the village." She paused at looked at the child, who had never met a stranger and was hiding her eyes on Gibson's shoulder. "She's a very pretty little girl," said Shannon, who really didn't care one way or the other, and quickly reverted to ignoring it. She'd never felt a maternal urge in her human or her supersoldier lives.

Back at the village, the others watched closely as Shannon walked back in, with the four others behind. In their hut, Monica poured water for them all – it was too hot for tea – and they settled down.

"You can control your thoughts like they can," said Gibson, now able to recognize these things.

"To some degree. It comes with the territory," she said, implying her abilities. "It's one of the reasons I'm allowed to come here. No one else can… they might know too much and pass it on unknowingly."

"How can we trust you?"

"I suppose you can't. I suppose you should just sit here in the jungle for the rest of your lives."

"Except that they're coming here."

"Yes, they are."

"Who?" asked Monica, as she unapologetically fed Vera, a sight which reminded Shannon of a leech.

"The same ones who want the boy."

"The aliens?" asked John. "Bounty hunters?"

"Yes. They are preparing for an invasion. Despite leaving a trail through the millennia, they have taken it into their heads the last few years to start covering their tracks. The human race has a remarkably short attention span, so the odds are good that no one will catch on, and the ones who cry their heads off will be ignored, for the evidence is slipping away between their fingers like water."

John and Monica looked at each other. Neither had forgotten the reason Shannon had become intertwined with the x-files. And talk of alien invasion was never a pleasant subject.

"Certain factions wanted to continue to study this population, and there was much arguing and bargaining with the aliens. They finally agreed to take just the villagers who were capable of reproduction. But their patience has worn thin and they are demanding we finish up our studies so that they can remove the rest."

"They are going to exterminate them?" asked Monica, her heart unable to bear the thought of the people who had sheltered them being taken away to die.

"I do not ask what they plan to do with them. They are ultimately their own creation."


	42. Chapter 42

"They won't see it as death," said Gibson. "They see it as rebirth. The ones that were taken are not considered lost, just favored by the gods."

"I don't care what their beliefs tell them, I'm not ok with leaving them to die."

"Where does Gibson fit in to all this? Why is he so important?" asked John.

"Ah," said Shannon, "There is a fine question. You haven't asked the boy? I'm sure he must know."

"I'm proof."

"Yes, but so are all these people."

"Not proof of alien contact. Proof that we understand alien physi… phy… physiology," he explained, grabbing the word from Shannon's head. "I didn't just happen. I was made. Kind of like William, but years before anyone thought it could be done. I was the only one who survived."

_Gibson, what happened to your parents?_ Monica asked him, for the umpteenth time since life had thrown them together. This time he answered.

"My mother didn't know. She just thought they'd gone in for fertility treatment. My father knew… he had agreed to the whole thing. But he didn't understand what he was getting in to. He never told her that he played a part in it. But I did. I knew. I knew everything he knew. And I told her, before I understood what it meant. There was a lot of fighting. There usually was. I didn't understand when I was that little to keep my mouth shut, that people keep secrets to avoid conflict.

"They tried to take me when I was little, but my father refused. He felt… possessive of me. Not like a father to his son, but like a man to his most valuable possession. He taught me to play chess and he liked showing me off like that. My mother hated it. She hated how he would showcase me all over the world. She just wanted to protect me.

"After the Vancouver tournament, my father realized how dangerous it was to put me out there. But it really didn't matter. They took me away from them to protect me and I never saw them again. When they kidnapped me, Krycek and Spender, I knew they would kill them to make me cooperate. I cooperated, and then they killed them anyway. My parents were trying too hard to get me back, and they were causing difficulties, and that stupid cigarette smoking bastard wanted me to know who had the power, as if cutting into my brain wasn't enough.. I really couldn't do anything, except escape and run for my life."

Monica touched his hand gently, but he pulled away. He didn't want sympathy. There was no justice to exact, for all involved were dead. It was pointless to get into it.

"The aliens want me so that no human can figure out how it was done. The doctor who did it was killed long ago, along with everyone who worked on it, but that was when I was real little, so I don't really know much about it. The secret government, the remains of it, want me to replicate the experiment. They think it will help them survive the invasion. But I don't think mind-reading is going to help _me_ survive it, and even if it did, what would be the point?"

"Do you know when it is, when they're planning it?" asked John.

"You haven't told them that either?" Shannon asked Gibson, giving him a scrutinizing look.

"What's the point of that either? No one's going to be able to stop it. People should be allowed to enjoy their lives."

Gibson listened as John's head clicked all the pieces into place suddenly. "2012?" he asked, not entirely sure his math worked out right. Gibson nodded. "In my vision, Vera was about 6 or 7, maybe 8… that would put us around 2011 to 2013. And all that Mayan calendar stuff, the end of this phase of life as we know it, maybe that's what they were saying would happen. Maybe they knew their gods would be returning."

The conclusion hung in the air.

"My god," said Monica. "That is only 6 years away." She held Vera tighter, but the child protested, finishing up her meal and moving to her father's lap instead. "Is there any hope?" she asked Shannon.

"As of yet, no. But there are factions working to prevent this. There are factions in nearly every country, there are factions within other factions, there are individuals out there who know the truth but are powerless at the moment. Your friend Fox Mulder being one of them."

"Do you know how they are? Dana and Fox?" asked Monica. "Are they safe?"

Shannon nodded. "We assume Mulder is safe. Dana Scully left the bureau a few years back and now works as a medical doctor in DC. She knows where Mulder is, but she refuses to disclose his location. Keeping him underground is preferable than his being so visible in the FBI."

"This is why they aren't putting more pressure on us? At least we're quiet?" asked Monica.

"Yes, though you still have the boy."

"What do we do?"

"You run. Again. I have petitioned for months for your release, and it has not gone over well. There is perhaps less pressure, and more willingness to overlook your transgressions, but there is no guarantee. And you should be well advised that the Federal Police of Mexico have not forgotten you either."


	43. Chapter 43

"They still think we played a part in Senora Reyes' death?" asked John.

"They say they simply want to bring you in for questioning. But after four years of your being in hiding, they might not be so inclined to handle your case with care. At the same time, there is a lot of pressure from certain agencies in the US who were not happy with the attention that was focused on you and the boy afterward. They don't want it to be common knowledge and they don't want to give you a soapbox or a cause and certainly not a venue in which to be a martyr. This is why your faces are not plastered on wanted signs all over Mexico. Most of the search has been handed over to the Ministerial Federal Police, and more specifically, to a smaller, unnamed group which is working in close contact with the FBI."

Gibson could hear both John and Monica thinking about how they never imagined this when applying to the FBI. John's thoughts carried frustration and annoyance, a desire to protect his family that was proving to be futile. Monica was more resigned to the situation, living more in the moment than worrying about the future in any way other than how to ensure their safety.

"Is there anything we can do besides running to help Gibson?" she asked.

Shannon didn't answer.

"So there's no hope of his ever being allowed to live his life? No chance of him ever getting to live openly, freely?"

"There are too many people who want him, either for their own benefit, or to silence him for the things he knows, or to destroy him for what he is."

She knew he wouldn't let her touch him, not in front of Shannon and not while he was trying to hard to be stoic. All she could do was to tell him that she would never stop fighting for him.


	44. Chapter 44

"So all we can do is keep running?" Monica asked again. "And the aliens are coming for the villagers? And there's nothing we can do to stop it?"

"Essentially."

"And you say that you are working to get us freedom?"

"Yes."

"If you are successful, how in the world would you contact us to let us know?"

"That is a good question. You have at times, in the first few years, managed to allude us for long periods of times – months even. After the boy was in the hospital, we had a better time keeping tabs on you, but even then it was on and off. So, it really depends on how well you're hiding. You should definitely hide, keep on the move, do as you were doing. I can give you a way to reach me, if you want, but I don't know that you would trust me."

"A way to reach you? We just shoot a bat symbol up into the air, or you got a an email address we can use?" asked John.

Shannon smiled at her former brother in arms. "Something like an email address. I would only use it sparingly if I were you."

"No problem with that.

"I'll give it to you before you head out. There is plenty more to go over, but I also have work to do here besides you. I was sent on official business, but don't worry, no one knows you are hidden here."

Her official business seemed to be documenting the villagers, one by one. They were down to 29 now. She took their pictures, interviewed them briefly. She took vitals – blood pressure, weight, temperature. And she attached them to a small machine with electrodes that were attached to their temples and various places on their scalps, conducting silent interviews, asking them questions that they would answer in their minds only, after reading the questions from her mind. By nightfall she was mostly finished. She of course needed no sleep, but they did, and she had to give up for the night.

Gibson stayed with John and Monica that night, for there was no question that neither one fully trusted Shannon. They hung his hammock against the back wall so that they were between him and the door. No one was able to do much more than doze during the night, from fear of Shannon's turning on them, or the upcoming collection by the aliens, or general anticipation of their being able to leave the jungle finally.

But as the air and then the ground and hut began to shake, they all woke up fully. Their feet were already on the ground when an intense artificial light flooded the village. Monica held a screaming, squirming Vera in one arm and clutched Gibson with the other, so tightly he knew her fingers would leave bruises. John stood in front of them looking at the doorway, his pistol held ready.

"What do we do?" he called out to Gibson over the roar of the alien spacecraft. Gibson shook his head. "I don't know, but if you shoot, you have to hit that same spot where the supersoldiers have that bump. It's the only place that can kill them, and it's not always enough to do the trick. And we'd need to get out quickly if you do… their bodies are toxic after they die."

No sooner had he said that than and unknown man walked in. Monica immediately pulled Gibson with her into the corner, putting Vera into his arms and grabbing her handgun from her bag, which thankfully was only a few feet away. The man, who looked like a native, suddenly transformed into a tall, blonde man with a well chiseled jaw.

"He's an alien bounty hunter," said Gibson.

_I am not here to collect you_. He did not speak aloud and simply walked out the door.

They stayed in the hut for another five tense minute, John and Monica standing before Gibson, who was doing his best to soothe Vera despite his own fears. A few of the villagers were afraid, though they were accepting of their situation, and their minds bled into his, along with the strong pulse like feeling that came from being in such close proximity to an alien craft. With a click and a shudder, the lights disappeared, and the air hung empty and dark around them. They ventured out, cautiously, and found Shannon standing there looking up at the sky.

"I didn't think they would come so soon. It's like they're mocking us. But I see they did not take the boy. At least they upheld that part of their bargain. You might as well go back to sleep. It's over now." She walked away from them and slipped into one of the villager's huts.

No one slept that night, except Vera, who was only coaxed to sleep after a late night feeding at her mother's breast. In the early morning hour, Monica wandered out to see for herself. Every hut was empty. No one was left. Shannon came over to her.

"I'm going to head back soon. There is no point in staying here. You should do the same."

"Isn't it safe here now?" asked Monica, thinking that maybe they could stay in the village, for there were still gardens and fields and livestock to tend.

"I wouldn't advise it. The aliens know he's here. There's even less reason to trust them than me."

Monica nodded. "Why are you helping us? You said before that you still remember being human, but that can't be all."

"They may have removed a lot of my humanity, but not all of it. Enough for me to hate them, though. I didn't realize what I was getting into when I agreed to be part of the experiment. But then, I didn't have much of a choice. Dishonorable discharge or this. And you can't really take a career jarhead out of the Marines."

"Dishonorable discharge? But your unit was commended for its work, right?"

"Don't ask, don't tell made things rather difficult, and I was careless. The Marine Corp was far more important to me, though, than anything I could have had with a woman, sadly. Relationships like that just aren't my thing. And they said they could make it go away, and make me a stronger person, super human, and then I could devote my life to the Corp instead. I only had to take a few minutes before deciding." She looked Monica up and down and Monica knew that Shannon still had feelings for women. Shannon gave a smiling nod. "Semper fi," she added.

"And they weren't able to fix that for you, were they?"

"My predilection for women? Not so much. They did manage to kill my sensors enough that sex holds no appeal for me. I feel no pain and no pleasure either. What I feel is nothing more than sensations that are neither good nor bad."

"I'm sorry."

Shannon smiled a melancholy smile, looking off into the jungle. "No need to be sorry. I made this decision. And I would do it again. I only disagree with the assignment and the purpose of the project. I seem to be the only supersoldier, at least the only one I know, who would rather we concentrate on defeating the aliens, instead of than trying to figure out how to work with them so that only a select few will survive. Also, I don't hold much faith in the aliens promises to not kill off everyone. I believe that they are only working with us to facilitate their arrival."


	45. Chapter 45

Monica looked hard at Shannon and thought, another time, another place, another life, she would have allowed herself to think certain things about her. She was gorgeous. Strong. And Monica could tell that she was like that before the experiment that turned her into the superhuman she was now. She felt her heart go out to the woman Shannon must have been at some point, conflicted, upset, hating herself and who she was. But Shannon wanted no sympathy.

Shannon mistook her gaze for distrust. "You still don't trust me."

"It's hard to believe you. But John seems to trust you. You saved his life twice back when we were agents."

"I saved his life a few other times when we were conscripted. He's like a brother in some ways. That's how it is in the Corp. I would have died for them, and they for me."

"Why did you kill those men, the men who knew about the chloramine and were going to tell the FBI?"

Shannon smiled. "That was my job. I had to do it. Being derelict in those duties would have been seen as insubordination. Don't you realize though that I was the whistleblower for them? They had to die, there was nothing I could do except to make sure that their knowledge was passed on. John was an obvious choice, Kersh less so, but he did the right thing, despite the persona he had to maintain and the decisions he was required to make."

Monica felt a little easier, but Mulder's mantra ran through her mind. Trust no one. But there were people she trusted, with all her heart, with no doubt in her mind. She trusted John. Dana. Mulder. Gibson. Could she trust Shannon too? It was really too soon to say. Her instincts told her to be cautious, but not to flee.

They stood were they were, outside the goat pen, for a few more minutes, watching the goats wander around lazily in their early morning stupor. Then Monica placed her hand over Shannon's and squeezed. "Thank you. Regardless of anything else, you led us here to safety. My daughter is healthy, Gibson has been safe, and we are all still together, so I owe you a lot. If you meant it when you said they would hurt us if we went into a hospital, then I owe you everything I have right now, really."

Shannon pulled away. She wasn't used to gratitude. "We should all prepare to leave. If word gets round before I return that they came last night, then there's a chance my people will come to clean up to erase the evidence. Best not have you here, or any traces that you were here." She walked away.

Melancholy hung thick in the air. Everyone they had known, the people who had opened up their village to them, given them food, taught them not only what they needed to know to survive in the jungle, but also how to contribute, their friends were gone now. There was nothing that could be done, but hope that they were well, or that if they'd been killed, that it had been quick and painless. No one could bear the thought of their suffering at the hands of those they revered.

By midday they had cleared the huts of all traces of their lives. There wasn't enough room for a car seat, and Vera had never been confined in a anything anyway, so Monica held her on her lap. Shannon stood outside the SUV and gave a guarded smile. "If there are any positive changes in your situation, I will contact you if I can find you. Otherwise, just keep the boy safe and watch out for yourselves."

Their favorite car game following time in the woods was greatly expanded this time.

"I can't wait to take a long hot shower," said Monica.

"I just want a beer. Never did like that corn stuff."

"TV," said Gibson, the first item he always listed.

"Beds. Lying flat on a bed and stretching out."

"Running water."

"Um…" said Gibson.

"Deodorant," teased Monica.

"Hey!" replied Gibson, gently elbowing her in displeasure.

"I'm just saying… and you know you're not the only one."

"News. 11 months away, who knows what's been going on in the world," said John, continuing on.

"Books."

Gibson made a sound of displeasure. He was hoping that wouldn't lead to a return of his studies under Monica. "Fanta. With ice."

"Grocery stores and markets. All this business of hunting and gardening is tedious."

"I enjoyed that. But I suppose it would be nice to have more variety to our diets again."

"Um… people my age. Not that I ever get to talk to them."

"Electricity."

"Shaving. Though I must admit it's been nice to not have to worry about it. But I do miss having smooth legs."

"I second that one," said John, giving a laugh.

"When I'm finished, you're getting rid of that thing," she said, tugging gently at the scruffy beard he wore. "And you need to accept that this needs to go too," she added to Gibson, pointing at the scraggly beard he wore that he knew they found less than appealing.

"No one would recognize me with this."

"Well, it's your choice. But that means we're stuck looking at it."

He bit back his smile as best he could. "Is it my turn again? Good. More TV."

John laughed and Monica rolled her eyes, and they were all very glad to be on their way to civilization again.


	46. Chapter 46

They settled back into their pre-jungle lives quickly. What was a far step below their lives in DC was now a life of near opulence. Everything felt like a luxury and they spent a good month just reveling in it. They moved back to the state of Oaxaca and rented a two-bedroom trailer near the shores of Miguel Aleman Lake, which was chock full of tarp, tilapia and catfish. They spent their days in quiet repose, hoping that the little bit of freedom Shannon claimed they had gained was true, but not desirous to test it out just yet.

It was there that Vera took her first steps, her fat hands wrapped tight around Gibson's fingers one second and then flying around in excitement the next as she took three sturdy steps and then fell down, shocked only for a second and then breaking out into laughter and getting up to try again. John and Monica completely forgot what it was they were doing and sat on the floor with Gibson, holding out their arms to her as she played her new game of mobility. By the end of the week, she was running. By the time her first birthday rolled around, she was climbing on anything and everything she could, requiring constant supervision. Not that it was hard to find someone who wanted to be with her.

The days rolled by until it was time to move on again. John had traded in their last truck, which he had kept in meticulous shape even during the months that it was not used. With the amount of gear they needed to keep on hand, there was no way they could avoid getting another truck, but they upgraded to one with a backseat – their family truck. It was a bit more snug, with less room in the back, but a necessity.

As they were driving south towards the state of Chiapas, they witnessed something that turned all their stomachs. It was September 16th, Mexican Independence Day, and after less than thirty minutes on the road, John was beginning to think that they should have stayed holed up a little longer. No one on the road seemed to be sober. He was just about to tell Monica to call it quits for the day and pull into a motel somewhere, when a truckload of hollering men swerved their truck into the path of a dog, knocking the poor creature down and then driving off with a care.

"What the hell?" exclaimed John, truly disturbed by the incident. "Stop the truck. We should go make sure it's ok."

"John," said Monica, indulgently pulling to the side of the road. "It might be best to just leave it be. This happens all the time." John ignored her.

She nervously left Gibson and Vera in the truck to get a better view of her husband and his insanity. He hopped down into the shallow ditch in which the dog had dragged itself into, and emerged with it in his arms.. He laid it down beside the truck and looked it over. It was a small creature, with a reddish brown coat and a curly tail. She looked at with frightened eyes, whimpering whenever he touched anything that hurt her.

"She's a bit scratched up," he said, "but other than her leg, I think she's fine. We could splint it and see how that works."

Monica placed a hand on his head. She didn't understand why he was so concerned with this dog. Wild and homeless dogs roamed the entire country, largely ignored or overlooked. The ones in pet stores, or rather, the random stores that held a few crates of animals for sale, faired even worse, with small wire cages, stacked one atop the other, neglected. But whenever she tried to ask him his reasons for taking care of this one, the question got lost between her brain and her mouth.

Gibson emerged with Vera, handing her off to her mother, and they watched while John played veterinarian on the side of the road, cleaning out her scrapes and abrasions with antiseptics, splinting down her leg, all the while cooing at her with "Hey girl" and "It'll be alright," all in Spanish, amusingly enough, as if it would be more understandable to her. Vera squirmed to get down, but Monica did her best to distract her with English and Spanish lessons. "Dog. Perro," she said, overemphasizing her rolled r's. "Dog. Pay-o," the infant repeated, squirming more afterward, hoping that her repetition was the key to escaping her mother's arms.

"John, are you…?" she started to ask if he was sure of what he was getting himself into, but when he looked up at her, his eyes crinkling with worry and compassion, she shook her head to forget her question. He grabbed a blanket and made the dog a bed in the back and instructed Monica to stop at the first sign for lodging they saw.

When Monica woke the next morning, only Vera lay sleeping in the bed with her. She found John on the floor at the foot of the bed, fast asleep with his head on his arm and his other hand near the dog's muzzle. The dog looked up at her with sad puppy eyes and she felt her shoulders drop in defeat. She reached down and rubbed John's arm until he rolled over and looked up at her.

"How's she doing?"

"She's alright, I think."

Monica smiled. "And to think you once tried to tell me you were a cat person."

"Maybe Sadie changed my mind."

"Sadie? You've already named her?"

"Well, she looks like a Sadie. She's gotta have a name."

"I guess this means you're thinking of keeping her?"

"Only if you're ok with that, of course," he said, but she could see in his eyes that he wanted her to say yes more than anything else in the world.

"Let's see how she does first before we make any decisions like that. And we have to make sure Vera's safe around her. If she so much as nips, she's gotta go."

"You know I wouldn't think twice about getting rid of her if she hurts Vera. But she hasn't once nipped at me, and I've been causing her nothing but pain taking care of her. I think she's a sweet old dog, aren't you Sadie?" The dog thumped it's tail in response. Monica sighed with a smile and realized that their little family had grown again.


	47. Chapter 47

A/N: misplaced scene – should be a chapter or two back, just after they leave the jungle

* * *

Gibson's 18th birthday had passed back in the jungle. But now that they were out again, it occurred to John and Monica that maybe they should talk to Gibson. He knew the talk was coming, but he didn't want to broach the subject. There was no avoiding it, however, and as soon as they put Vera down to nap, John said they wanted to talk to him. He nodded his head. "I know."

"Now that you're 18," said John, thinking he should have let Monica do the talking after all, "you're legally an adult. Not that you didn't have this right before, but we just want to make sure you understand that you can do as you like. If you feel you're old enough to take care of yourself, just let us know and we'll help you with whatever you need so that you can do that. We don't want you feeling like you're got no say in the matter."

Gibson nodded and stared at the table. He thought of the years he'd spent as a boy on his own and the years he spent in witness protection, essentially on his own. Frankly, he had come to appreciate the last four years. They had certainly taught him skills that he could use to live quite successfully without them, and he felt entirely confident in his abilities to do so. But at the same time, they had sneakily wrapped themselves up in his life, to the point where leaving them was a scary thought. It had been four years since Mulder left him and the pain of that was still in his heart. Maybe he was an adult, but he still felt like a kid when it came to some things. He knew it wasn't true, for he had had ready access to enough minds to disprove it, but it still felt like a childish thing to want to be taken care of, to want to be protected, to want to wake up and see the same familiar faces smiling at him when he groggily stumbled over for breakfast.

Monica put her hand over his and squeezed it. "Gibson, I don't know what is going on in that head of yours, but I don't want you to think that we're trying to get rid of you. You know we're not. You know we like you and that we want to keep protecting you. You know you're like family to us. You are my surrogate son, don't forget. But every parent, no matter how much they love their child, has to let them go at some point. Since we don't read minds, and since you are so reticent, we don't really know how you feel about this," she said, "this" implying everything they had gone through in the last four years.

He shrugged, but kept his hand in Monica's. This is what he was dreading. It would have been so much easier could they just open up his mind and see all this thoughts. Verbalizing them was near torture. "I don't mind."

Monica fought to control her smile and looked up at John, who stood behind her. "I don't mind. John, could you please translate that for me? My translation skills at teenage boy are pretty weak today."

"Could be he is just afraid of hurting our feelings but he really can't wait to get away from us. Could be he really doesn't care one way or the other. Could be he…" John was about to say something closer to what Gibson was really feeling, but he could feel the tension in the air around Gibson grow thick. "Maybe he kinda likes staying with us," he said, sticking with a much less emotional explanation.

Gibson shrugged again. "It's not bad, staying with you. And I like how we all kinda work together. It would be hard to be alone."

_But you like us, right? You realize we're a family, right? _asked Monica.

He bit his lip and nodded to her. John realized that they were having a moment, so he politely waited a few seconds till it seemed it had passed.

"You don't have to make a decision now. And you can decide to stay now and leave whenever. But we're here to keep you safe. No matter what." Gibson could feel how hard it was for John to say that. He knew how hard it was for John to keep him ahead of his wife and daughter and something clicked within him.

"I'm not all that important," he said to John. "And I can take care of myself. I'm an adult now, but Vera's just a baby. I don't think you should ever put me above her. For any reason. I would rather leave so you could take care of her the right way, than stay and have you guys think I need more protection than her."

Monica pulled him towards her and kissed the top of his head. "Let us hope that such a situation never occurs. I think this settles it though, he's staying."


	48. Chapter 48

"John? Do you remember what Vera said when we were playing the game?" she asked, referring to the car game they had played when leaving the jungle.

"Dog, wasn't it?"

"Do you think maybe she knew?"

"Mon, she's a year old. She's way too young to even understand that game."

"I know," she said, sitting back up to look at her daughter. "That's why I'm wondering."

"Our baby's not an x-file. She just said one of the few words she knows. It's barely even a coincidence."

Monica nodded and brushed a few silky strands of Vera's hair from her face. She wanted to push John to support her on this, but knew better than that, so she bit her lip and dropped the subject.

She loved her husband. There was no doubt about that. She'd loved him almost since she first met him, perhaps even then, but everything was overshadowed by the search for Luke, and it was certainly not the time to even think about the man who so desperately needed her help. The vision of Luke's body turning into ashes had bonded her to him, and she suspected him to her though he would never admit it to himself. Seeing him recoil so suddenly from the sight of the little body, looking away, blinking, his brow furrowed with confusion as he looked again; she knew he'd seen what she'd seen. She tried to talk to him then, but it was not the right moment and she began a long history of not pushing him when he resisted.

After her ritualistic task force had been removed from the case, and the FBI had concluded their investigation, and John and Barbara were left to mourn for the child who was taken too soon, something had changed. She'd been haunted by him, and felt helpless, and she was still curious about his vision, about whether or not he would admit to it. She called him one day. Just a social call, to see how he was doing. And he wasn't doing well. She could tell that he was isolating himself with his grief. Barbara was no doubt lost in her own grief. Monica could sense that they needed help, but she didn't know how to provide it, or even what they needed. She was only 23, so new to the FBI, to adulthood, to life. Now, as she looked back, she was amazed at her own brazenness. To call up a married man and ask to see him… it's a wonder he said yes. Perhaps he needed her, the connection that she had to Luke, to further his mourning; perhaps he felt the same connection as she did. She didn't know, and back then, she didn't care. All she knew was that something was pulling her towards him, and she felt powerless to resist it.

Had she played a part in his divorce? She had never been sure. Barbara had nearly lost it when she learned that John was carrying on a friendship with her, but John had reassured her a hundred times over that there was nothing going on. She had even tried herself, reaching out to Barbara in friendship, trying to arrange some sort of gathering, but Barbara regarded her as something to be forgotten, an unwelcomed reminder of the child she'd lost and the failure to find him in time.

An angry phone call from Barbara, a year after Luke's murder, finally wised her up. Barbara had said some hateful things, demanding she stay away, that she'd done enough damage. She never told John, but merely wrote a letter that she felt was properly expressive of her intentions – that she only wished to be there for John, that she felt a connection to him that extended no further than friendship, that she only wished to help. Barbara never responded.

The request for a divorce came a year after that. John called her in tears, not knowing who else to turn to. She went to him immediately and sat with him for hours, just listening, sometimes just granting him silence. He'd lost his son and now his wife, and he felt like she was the only one who could possibly understand. Why he thought that, she had no idea for she had no children, no husband, just a string of lovers who meant little to her if anything. Still, she was touched.


	49. Chapter 49

"Why is she here?" asked Barbara when she arrived for the divorce proceedings. Monica sat in the hallway, feeling her self-confidence and helpfulness being sucked out of her 26-year-old body.

"Because I need a friend here today. Because my wife has decided that I mean nothing to her any longer."

Barbara sized up Monica with a particularly steely gaze. Monica set her jaw. She had to be strong for John.

"I just came to give him support."

"I can't believe you would bring your girlfriend. I thought you were a better man than that. I thought you would spare me, but instead you want to rub my nose into it?"

"I'm not the other woman. I'm not his girlfriend, nor his mistress, nor anything but a friend, and I wish you would quit making me out to be otherwise." She rose to her feet and stood before Barbara. "Whatever happened to your marriage had nothing to do with me, so please do not use me as a scapegoat any longer."

Barbara left without another word and walked into the courtroom.

"Maybe you ought to wait out here," said John. Monica nodded and took her seat again.

She was relieved to learn that Barbara did not cite her anywhere in her grounds for divorce. Still, when she rushed out the courtroom with her parents and lawyer, she wouldn't even make eye contact with her.

Seven years later, when John convinced his ex-wife to come in to look at the suspect's in Luke's case, Monica purposely kept out of her way and didn't try to speak to her. She wanted to say, See, seven years later, and I'm still not sleeping with John. We are still just friends. I never meant you any harm.

But she couldn't. Because by then, there was no doubt in her heart that she loved him, that she was fated to be with him. Perhaps Barbara had understood that before either one of them. She wondered if she would hate her all the more, now that she was his wife and had given him another child. She wondered even more how Barbara was doing after Luke's case was finally solved. Had she continued to move on with her life? Was she married too? Children? A new happiness to replace the old?

Vera started to stir and Monica's thoughts were interrupted by more immediate realities of clean diapers and morning feedings


	50. Chapter 50

Life continued on peacefully enough. Sadie had healed up with only a limp remaining, and she dutifully followed behind John whenever she could, and always slept by their front door, as though she and her 35-pound frame could stop someone from entering. She was mindful of Vera, but learned quickly enough to stay out of the way of her poking fingers and grasping hands.

Gibson was taking advantage of the autonomy allotted to him for reaching the age of 18 and began to take walks alone, just to indulge in some solitude. But he felt a deep sense of protection towards his adoptive family and he knew that his abilities were beneficial in keeping them safe and out of harm's way, so he rarely went far or stayed out for long.

Winter was beginning to bear down on them and they sought out a new dwelling, this time beside a river in southern Mexico, to avoid the worst of the weather. It was another concrete house, similar to so many that they had rented over the years, with chipped layers of pink and blue paint on the walls, a random smattering of crucifixes and Virgin Mary portraits spread throughout, and old, rusting, uncomfortable furniture that was probably all older than Gibson. The wiring was poor, and the electricity went out often. There was a washing machine that did an acceptable job at cleaning clothes and a clothing line in the back of the house. Water seemed to come in only two temperatures – ice cold and almost lukewarm. But they were happy.

The town was a little bigger than the ones they had lived in at the beginning, for they felt a little safer these days. There were even a few other Americans spread out in the population of 30,000, but they kept their distance. At least here they would always be able to obtain provisions and the clinic was almost large enough to be called a hospital.

Keeping to themselves meant that they were fairly cut-off from the rest of the community, oblivious to the events occurring all around them. Their landlord was consistent with collecting rent twice a month and when he failed to show up after a few days, Monica walked over with Vera on her hip and 200 pesos in her pocket. She found them in mourning. A small casket lay in the center of the room, the pale body of a child inside it.

"What happened? Who is the child?" she asked a person who didn't seem to be grieving as much as the others.

"That is Arturo and Lupe's granddaughter. She drowned."

Monica nodded in acknowledgment. Arturo was her landlord. She went to him and offered her condolences, to him, his wife, his daughter, and his son-in-law. Just as she was about to head home again, she overheard a guest mention that this was the third drowning in a month.

"It just doesn't make sense. It's January. Why are they playing so close to the river?" asked an older woman.

"If La Llorona calls for them, they must answer. That is the way it is," replied her friend.

Monica felt a chill spread over her. "There have been others?" she asked.

The women eyed her suspiciously but were put at ease by her accent and the child she carried in her arms.

"Last week, Miguel Martinez drowned in the river. He was only five. And two weeks before that, it was Luisa Aragon was pulled in too. She had only just turned seven. Now, with Marisol, La Llorona has collected three more children."

La Llorona. Monica had not heard that name since she was a child, during her summers in Guadalajara. Whenever they were near a large body of water, her aunt would warn her to stay away, for La Llorona would call for them, and they would never be able to resist her desperate plea.

There were many legends of the mythical woman, but the one Monica was familiar with was that La Llorona had once loved a man, who did not love her as well as she loved him. She bore him children, but even they could not make him stay. When nothing could bring him back home, she took their children and drowned them. But struck with the horror of what she'd done, she took her own life instead. Upon reaching the gates of heaven, she was asked where her children were, but she could not remember, or possibly she did not wish to confess, and she was sent back to earth, a spirit forced to wander endlessly in search of the children she had already murdered. Parents would warn their children to stay away from water, for she was there, looking for some to replace the ones she'd lost.


	51. Chapter 51

A/N: Since I'm not writing as much as I was in November, I'm going to start posting once a week so there's something substantial for the three of you to read. I'm still writing every day, and still have plenty of plot to work through. Constructive criticism is my friend and can only make the rest of the story better, so don't be afraid to speak up!

Also, if you're getting the annoying Take-this-survey-or-else-no-fanfiction-for-you ads, just keep refreshing your browser until they go away. They are not beneficial to ; they are nothing more than spam, and giving them all your personal info is not a good idea.

* * *

The old woman took notice of Vera, bundled up in a fleece hoodie against the cold, and cooed affectionately at her. "You must keep a close eye on her. Don't go near the water, sweetie. The water is very, very bad."

"Bad water," said Vera.

"Smart girl!" said the woman.

When they returned home, Monica told John about what had happened, but he did nothing more than agree that they should be extra careful, especially since Vera was of the age and predisposition to never sit still and always off exploring (i.e., getting into trouble.)

Later that night, as she lay in bed nursing her daughter to sleep, she thought of her older cousin Julia and the supposed visit by the Wailing Woman. Julia was the oldest of the cousins in Guadalajara, and she looked on it as her mission in life, almost, to scare the bejeezus out of all those younger than her. One night towards dusk, as the adults readied supper, she led them all out to the river where they spent their days playing in the water. Monica was eight years old, old enough to start to disbelieve the things Julia told her, but young enough that she was still easily susceptible to the more plausible tellings.

"No one here except Guillermo knows about our older sister Maria, right?" The younger cousins shook their heads. Guillermo, Julia's 12-year old brother, looked somber. "Maria used to come here too, before any of you were born. She would be 20 years old now, if she had not met La Llorona just down the river there when she was five." Seven sets of open, terror-filled eyes followed the direction of her finger.

"It was a summer night, about this very time of year. I was just a little tiny baby, so Maria had no one to play with or sleep with. During the night, she heard someone call her name. "Marriiiaaa," it called. La Llorona sounded very sad and Maria got up to look out the window. She wore shrouds of white, that flowed in the wind, and she stood by the tree outside of the girls' bedroom," (at this point, Monica and her two girl cousins shivered in horror) "and she continued to call to her, until Maria listened. She went outside, and reached up to give La Llorona her hand, so that she would not be sad any more. But then La Llorona grabbed her quick, and Maria screamed, but by the time the adults could get to her, it was too late. They found her body on the riverbank right there," she pointed again, and again seven pairs of eyes looked to the terrible spot.

"No one talks about it to this day. I only know because I found a picture of her and asked my mother. But it made her so terribly sad that she would not quit crying for months, so I never spoke of it again. Do not ask the adults, for it is too much for them to bear, and I will get in trouble for even speaking of that terrible tragedy.

"And you must always remember to only play in the river during the day, when everyone is with you. And at night, you must never ever come when she calls your name. You must be strong and tell her no, that you know what she wants, and you must scream and wake everyone up so that she cannot steal anyone else."

Monica and her younger girl cousins all squeezed in to the same bed that night, leaving Julia to her own, which was probably her plan all along. But the more Monica thought about it, the less it made sense, and the next day as they walked to the river, she quietly asked Julia how it was that anyone knew what happened to Maria if there were no witnesses. Julia smiled at her. "You are a smart one, Monicita, always thinking! I will tell you a little secret – I had to make that part up."

It wasn't the only part Julia made up. Back home, several months later, Monica summoned the courage to ask her mother. They had been trading La Llorona stories at school that day, and she had done a fair job herself scaring her classmates.

"Maria?" asked her mother. "There is no Maria. Your Aunt Luz only has three children, and Julia is her oldest, and then Guillermo and then Gustavo. She was 20 when she had her, and I guarantee you she did not have one at 15. I think Julia was just trying to scare everyone, and if it kept you safer near the water, then so be it."

When John came in for the night, she had meant to talk to him more, but he kissed her the kiss that meant he didn't plan on doing much talking that night, and he scooped Vera up in his arms and dropped her into the crib that their landlord had leant them when they moved in, perhaps the very crib that his grandson had slept in as a baby.

It was cold, very cold, and they had no heat, as even the richest of the rich in Mexico City were used to going without heat during the winters. There was little else to do to keep warm than make love for hours on end.

But she was distracted, and he could tell. When they finished, and as they cuddled in each others arms as the sweat from their bodies began to cool and make them shiver, he asked her what was wrong.

"I'm still bothered by those children. The wailing woman."

"I thought you said it was just a ghost story to keep kids in line."

"It is, but I felt something. Like there's more to it than that." She paused. "Don't you miss it? Solving crimes, helping people?"

"Of course I do. Is that what's bothering you?"

She shook her head. "I just keep feeling like I'm missing something, that we're here for a reason, that we can help them."

"Well, I don't think there's a lot your worrying at 2 a.m. is going to do for them. Why don't you sleep and we can talk tomorrow?"

She didn't sleep long. Dreams of La Llorona, so similar to the ones she'd suffered during the summer Julia had scared them so badly, haunted her until she awoke in a panic. She went to the crib and found Vera sleeping soundly, her little nose frozen from the cold and her cap no longer on her head, but down near her feet. She cradled her daughter in her arms for a minute, careful to not wake her, and then slipped her into the bed next to John, who reflexively curled his body around her. Monica threw on some pajamas and went through the house, checking on Gibson first, who was snoring soundly, and then making sure all the doors and windows were locked. She looked outside from each window, but saw nothing.

In the morning, over breakfast, she asked him if he would take Gibson shopping for groceries to see if there were any clues or leads.

"You don't mind a bit of reconnaissance, do you Gib? We can consider it part of your education. You could make an amazing FBI agent with your abilities."

"Sure," he answered with a shrug. "Does that mean I can get out of reading Animal Farm today?"

"Depends if you come back with something useful," she teased.

"Mon, I'm not so sure about this," said John, who was busy trying to get Vera to keep her corn meal breakfast in her mouth, rather than on her hands and clothes and the table.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, it's just a ghost story. Why can't you leave it at that?"

She narrowed her eyes. "How long did you work on the x-files? Can you really tell me that it's just a ghost story? Besides, you said we could talk about this in the morning, and it's morning. Was that your passive way of asking me to drop the subject."

John took a deep breath. "It was 2 in the morning. I wanted to sleep. I thought maybe in the morning you'd be less spooked."

"When are you ever going to learn that I mean it when I say I feel something. Have I ever been wrong?"

He didn't want to mention all the times that there was no way to prove anything, so he didn't speak at all. Vera sensed her parents anger and watched them with big eyes, no longer interested in eating or deflecting her breakfast at all.

"All that I'm asking you, John, is to go to the market with Gibson and keep your ears – and mind – open. If you don't want to help, then I'll go."

He sighed and decided it really wasn't worth it. If Monica wanted to believe in a children's ghost tale, then so be it. "Fine, we'll go. Do you want a detailed write up afterward?"

"Don't push me today." She got up and left for the bedroom.

Gibson brought Vera to her before they left.

_If he senses something, call him on it. And let me know._

Gibson rolled his eyes. "No. That's his business. And it's between you two. I only agreed to snoop on the people from here, not John."

Before he could get out of her mind, she was already pushing up apologies and excuses using the letters PMS.

"Going now," he said, somewhat irritated himself.

She spent a quiet morning with Vera and the dog. An attempt to bathe the child ended in a fierce tantrum that started the moment the tap was open.

"Bad water! Bad water! No!" screamed the child till she was red in the face, flinging her body backwards whenever Monica tried to pick her up.

"Alright, alright. I get it. No bath today. But I'm pretty sure those old women only meant the river, not the bathtub." Monica finally gave up and turned it off. She opted for books and toys instead, which Vera found far more to her liking.

Things were still cool when the boys returned.

"Well, how did recon go?" she asked, looking more at Gibson than her husband.

"I totally found us a lead. I even interrogated the witness!"

Monica smiled. "And?"

"His name is Carlos, he's 10, and he swears he saw and heard the Wailing Woman last night. She was calling for him, but he knew not to listen and he told her to go away, that he wouldn't take the place of her fourth child."

"Did anyone else see?"

"No. He woke up his little brother and they went to their parents' room, but their mom told them to go back to bed. When he looked out the window again, she was already gone. I told him he was really brave, and I think he liked that."

"Where does he live?"

"About a ten minute walk from here, but I think he lives closer to the river than we do."

"Were there any other drownings last night?"

"Nope, not that we heard about."

"So they seem to think that La Llorona had four children?"

"That's the local version, yes," said John, finally speaking up.

"Do they think she'll leave after the next victim?"

"That seems to be the thinking."

"Is there a precedent for it? Four drownings and then a lull?"

"I don't know. It's hard to find people who don't look at you funny when you ask those kind of questions. The last thing we need to be doing is attracting attention."

"The last thing we need to be doing is standing idly by why children are dying. I'm going to go out to look at the river, see if I can find anything unusual – erosion, fast currents, any reasons why a child would be attracted to it in the middle of the night. I thought about going out while you were gone, but the last thing I want to do is teach Vera how to get there."

John felt relief at her stunning logic, looking for physical clues, trying to understand the psychology of the victim's rather than just ascribing their actions to the lure of a ghost. He kissed her on the forehead when she handed him their daughter, and she lingered against his lips for a second.

"Be safe," he warned.

They river gave no hint of maliciousness. It never seemed to be wider than 20 feet across, hardly a river at all. A small gang of children were chasing each other nearby, one holding an old white bedspread as a cape around her shoulders, wailing out the names of her friends as she chased them eagerly. Monica walked along, taking note of the three spots where there were clustered plastic flowers, teddy bears and little white crosses. The banks were smooth and the slopes led gently into the water. A child could easily just walk right in without falling or tripping. She found no evidence of struggles, no hint of danger. The only spots were she could find activity were the places were the children had been dragged out and clusters of people had stood around, trying to help, but recognizing the futility of it.

An older woman, who looked to be 70 or so but was probably only in her mid-fifties, smiled in response to Monica's smile.

"It is not a good month to be a child," she said.

"No," replied Monica, hoping this woman knew something.

"Do you have children?"

"A daughter."

"You should keep a good eye on her. La Llorona is still looking for another."

"She needs four?"

The woman nodded. "She always needs four, from what I know. The stories vary from place to place, but I have only seen four."

"So you've seen this before?"

"Yes. When I was a child, she came for my little sister. She was only three. She was the first La Llorona took, and then there were three others, and then she was gone."

"That was here?"

"No, when I was child I lived further up the river, a day's walk. I moved here with my husband after our marriage."

"Have you ever seen her?"

She shook her head.

"Only children can see her, which is why she remains more myth than truth. But when you have this happen," she said, gesturing to the little memorial near them, "it is harder to deny."

"Is there anything that can be done to stop her?"

The woman gave her a sad smile. "Let her have her four, and she will give up and wander away again, her soul eased for a moment. But she will return. She always does. Somewhere." She straightened up to take her leave. "You are not from here."

Monica shook her head.

"Then I would recommend moving on soon. Best to leave before…" she waved her hand again in the direction of the little cross.

After she had left, Monica stayed by the river until she could bear the cold no longer. She was disquieted and felt a heavy sense of foreboding weighing down upon her.

At home, Vera was busy trying to burn off her excessive energy, running like a wild child everywhere, tumbling on the cold hard concrete floors like they were gymnastic mats, screaming with uncontrollable excitement, and just reveling in being 17-months old.

"I see that you have fed her nothing but pure sugar since I left," she said lightly to John, trying very hard not to hold his inability to believe against him any longer.

"Yes, and I had her wash it down with a full mug of coffee. I'm just hoping she wears herself out soon. I think she's aged me an extra decade in the last hour."

"There's nothing like a toddler to make you feel far too old to be a parent."

Her mother's arrival home only added to the exuberance

"Why don't you see if Gibson will play puzzles with you?" she asked the child who scarcely cared to make eye contact with her.

"Puzzles bad!"

"No, puzzles good. Excessive use of the word bad is bad."

"Bad!" She ran off in the direction of Gibson's room.

"Thanks a lot," came his grumpy response.

Finally, she sat down with John.

"Did you find anything?" he asked, a bit tired.

"Nothing at all, other than a healthy dose of Mexican fatalism."

"And that means?"

"I talked to a woman who suggested there was nothing to be done, this was the way things were, and La Llorona would take her fourth, regardless, so what can you do?"

"She believed the ghost story?"

"Yes, John, yes she did. Why else would a child get up in the middle of the night, walk to a placid river, and go for a swim in freezing cold water?"

"Sleepwalking?"

"All three?"

"It's unlikely, but not impossible. Maybe one kid did it, and the next two heard about it, and it just got into their subconscious that they needed to go there as well."

She put her head into her hands, resting her elbows on the table.

"Monica," he said, putting a hand on her back, "You can't fix this, ok? Maybe you need to be paying attention to what that woman said, to that fatalism you talk about."

"How so?"

"You want this to stop, but no one seems really concerned. They believe when it's a person's time to go, it's time to go, right? So how can you change an entire country or region's mindset? That's what you're really up against. They know what's going on. It's up to them to take extra measures to keep their kids safe. It's up to us to keep our daughter safe. That's the best we can do."

Vera let out a huge scream, and was soon brought in, kicking and screaming, by Gibson. "Diaper change," he said, holding her out. "And she broke my headphones. And no, I have no idea what her problem is, other than being tired."

"What has gotten into you tonight?" asked Monica, taking the squirming child into her arms. "We're supposed to have another seven months before the terrible twos."

"Why don't I take her, give her a bath. We'll read some books and have some quiet time. How does that sound?" John said.

"No bath. Water bad," came Vera's very serious response.

Monica looked up at John. "Good luck with that one. She's been on this anti-water kick since those old ladies told her not to go near the river yesterday."

The evening progressed, with Vera only slightly calming down during dinner, but not giving her parents any further time to continue their discussion.

"I'm not sure how Dana every managed to do her job and raise William at the same time. I can't even string two thoughts together that don't deal with her immediate care," she said, as Vera lay mostly calm at her breast.

They both thought it at the same time – the sadness that came when they remembered the baby, when they remembered how Scully had given the child up for his own good.

"He'll be five this year," she added. "I hope he's happy."

"I'm sure he is. I'm sure he lucked into some really great parents." John brushed her hair back with his fingers – it was shoulder-length and dyed black now – and tucked it behind her ears. "Why don't we call it a night? We're all exhausted, and she might be inclined to sleep if we lie down with her."

The child had other plans, and sat on the bed in between them, "reading" her books to them and restlessly nursing whenever Monica would let her. But eventually, sleep overtook her late in the night, and her parents were able to follow suit.

Monica wasn't sure at first what had woken her. It was bitterly cold and pitch black in their room. She instinctively reached for Vera, but found only an empty spot and then John's sleeping form. She sat up and felt under the covers, but there was nothing. Finding the crib empty as well, she woke up John.

"Vera's gone."

Sixteen years earlier, he'd answered the phone and heard Barbara's voice. "Luke's gone." _No_, he thought, _Not this time._

The next several seconds were a blur, as they searched the room and called for her. Monica ran to Gibson's room, and her heart sank at the sight of the open front door. John was already running out, barefooted, into the cold, calling desperately for his daughter. Gibson and Monica followed shortly.

The boy knew he would never be able to keep up. "She's at the river. There!" he said, pointing Monica in the right direction, watching her fly off, wishing he was fast enough to keep pace with her. Sadie's bark came from far away. At least she'd followed the child.

He knew the terrible moment when Vera hit the water. He felt the cold, the fear, the pain, and he ran faster. His mind clicked into John's and then Monica's, trying to pinpoint their location in the dark, calling out to them to continue altering their route, warning them that Vera was in the river.

Sadie had quit barking, and only Gibson knew that she was in the water too, but her lack of barking meant that John had lost part of his guide. He ran along the gently sloping banks, searching for movement, desperate for the sound of his child's voice. Gibson was close enough now that he could call out to him to turn to the left, which he did, until finally he saw Vera's head, still clad in the white cap she'd worn to bed, bobbing close to the surface of the water. The dog was desperately trying to keep a hold on her.

John ran in, completely oblivious to the shock of cold water, and grabbed them both, reaching the shore just as Monica arrived. He flipped the baby over, rubbing her back, letting some of the water run out of her mouth, before turning her over again and starting CPR. Seconds later, Vera coughed and spat out more river water before convulsing with choking cries and shivers. He quickly removed her wet clothes and handed her over to Monica. "Put her against your skin," he instructed, and she slipped her under her sweatshirt, holding her tightly.

Coming out of their spell, they found a small crowd had gathered, awoken by the sound of their frantic cries. "She's ok," he told them, still stunned. "Gracias a Dios," whispered back some of the crowd, crossing themselves and kissing their rosaries. Gibson hung back, petting the shivering, coughing dog, grateful that they had made it in time. The doctor from the nearby clinic soon rushed over, examining the child briefly in the bitterly cold air that made her scream even louder, proclaiming her fit, but told them to bring her by in the morning, and to keep her in as warm and dry a place as they could.

Home again, John plugged in the ancient and terribly unsafe space heater they used only during the day. He changed into his jeans and t-shirt and then dried off Sadie, praising her to no end for keeping Vera afloat. Monica lay on the bed, her body curled tightly around Vera who had fallen asleep again, dry and tightly bundled up. Gibson sat at the foot of the bed, not ready to return to his cold, empty room, wishing someone would give him a hug too, but too old to even think of asking for one. As soon as John let her, Sadie had jumped up on the bed and started sniffing and licking Vera, as though she were one of her own puppies. And finally, John found himself a spot on the bed, propped against the wall, unable to take his eyes off the child he'd nearly lost that night.

John finally noticed Gibson, resting his head on his arm, staring at the child too, and looked up at him with fresh tears in his eyes. "Thank you," he said, simply. Gibson shrugged and couldn't look him in the eye, but John just nodded, too emotional to speak. _You saved my daughter's life. I am forever in your debt. Forever. _ Their vigil lasted through the night, with no one but Vera and Sadie managing to get much sleep.

As the readied themselves to go to the clinic the next morning, Monica asked him what had happened, if he could read something in Vera's thoughts.

"She saw her. The woman. She called her, and she listened. And the woman took her by the hand and led her into the water, even though she didn't want to go in."

"Did you see La Llorona?" Monica asked the child who was far more subdued than the previous day, mainly due to the nasty cough she'd developed. Vera only looked at her, unsure of what was being asked.

"Yona?" she asked back.

"Yes, did you talk to La Llorona last night? That was bad."

"Bad Yona."

Monica sighed. Seventeen-month-old children were not the best communicators. "How did she even get out?" she asked Gibson.

"Door," replied the child, pointing at the front door.

Gibson shrugged. "She seems to think she just walked over and opened the door."

"But how? I've never seen her open the door. And it was locked. V, can you show everyone how you opened the door?"

Vera looked at them with uncertainty, but finally took off towards the door, grabbing hold of the handle, but failing to repeat her unseen performance of the night before. She ran back to her mother, burying her face in her lap. "Bad water, bad water," her muffled voice repeated. Monica combed her baby curls with her fingers and looked at John, who looked at Gibson.

"I told you what she remembers. That's all I can do."

John furrowed his brow. A ghost tale was too outlandish, but he trusted the boy, more than ever now. His wife had no problem with the story, and Vera was visibly bothered by what had happened. There was nothing to do but concede that he was wrong, that this particular ghost story was true, despite his inability to believe.

"I think we should leave. We'll take her to the clinic, make sure she's ok, and then we should get out of town. If the wailing woman is still looking for a fourth, I don't want her to come back for the one that got away."

Monica nodded. She too wanted to be as far away from this town, and especially this river, as possible.

The doctor listened to Vera's lungs, prescribed more warmth, and applied antiseptic cream to the bite marks left over from Sadie. The few other patients in the clinic smiled at Vera, congratulating her on surviving, telling John and Monica how fortunate they were to have taken their child back from La Llorona. Just as they were getting ready to leave, a frantic man rushed in, his hysterical wife behind him, and the limp body of a child in his arms. There was no need to see if she would survive; the fourth child had been taken.


	52. Chapter 52

Their high holidays, as Monica called the 28 days that included Christmas, New Year's, Gibson's birthday and her own, were spent in the driest town they could find. There was no ocean, no lake, and certainly no river. But it was a good-sized town, large enough to get lost in, small enough to allay most of their fears. They were James, Patricia, Samuel and Sarah Wallace, a simple ex-pat family that their widowed landlady took to immediately. The neighbors in their little apartment building were the nicest and most hospitable they'd encountered in all their travelling, doting on Vera (who was quite perplexed by her new name), inviting them over for Christmas Day dinners (all of which they declined, politely and with a bit of awe), and routinely dropping by to say hello or borrow some corn meal or ask them if they'd visited this, that, or the other thing. They all knew that it was best to keep a low profile, but the friendliness throughout the town made them painfully aware of how isolated their lives had been the last four and a half years.

The days leading up to Christmas were filled with invitations to watch various Posadas, the enactments by local children of Mary and Joseph's search for lodging. Everyone seemed so nice, they eventually buckled and gave in to a few requests. Even Monica couldn't help but remember how much it was possible to enjoy the holidays, and she was the one who suggested they attend midnight Mass, which lead to several more of their neighbors inviting them over for a post-Mass dinner. New Year's Eve brought more invitations from their hospitable new friends. They ate a dozen grapes each at the stroke of midnight, for good luck in the coming year, at a backyard party for several families, watching the firecrackers burst over head. "One day, perhaps, I can take you to Mexico City for New Year's and you can see how exciting fireworks can really be," she said to John, her arms wrapped around him, their daughter on his shoulders, pointing and shrieking exuberantly at the lights in the sky.

Gibson's birthday followed the next day, and he wanted only two things – contacts and sex. Obviously, he wasn't about to admit that second one to John or Monica, but the first one was readily accepted. It had been two years since his last glasses, and things were a tad blurrier, but they both understood that he wanted it more for his appearance than anything else. Then followed a quick trip to the ophthalmologist, a cheery fellow who teased Gibson about how all the ladies would throw themselves at him now, saying that with utter sincerity, which baffled Gibson. He knew he wasn't a looker, and he knew other people thought so. But no matter. If this man thought he had a chance, then who was he to argue? He needed all the encouragement he could get.

Christmas Day was not the day for exchanging presents in Mexico; January 6th, el dia de Reyes, the day of the Kings, was when the three Wise Men brought presents for children. Vera was just beginning to understand the concepts of gifts, and thought it was the grandest thing ever to wake up in the morning to find an orange in one of her shoes, a little stuffed dog (that looked suspiciously like Old Sadie) in the other, and a stack of new books underneath. Gibson thanked them for the new headphones, discman, and CDs that were hardly a surprise to him. But it was easy for him to surprise them. He wasn't exactly the best when it came to gifts, and he felt it was time to start acting like an adult, to show them he appreciated what they did for him. He gave John a new shirt to replace one that was wearing thin and for Monica, a new book, the thickest he could find by one of her favorite writers, to help ease the dullness of their lives.

After his winter break was over – Monica did her very best to make his educational schedule as normal as could be – they started scouring the local used bookstore for various texts to use for classes. Monica had given him finals the month before, in December, which he passed with no problem and no cheating, despite having studied so little since the later months of Monica's pregnancy. She promoted him to "college," which meant that his subjects were harder, more specific and usually required two or three research papers before she would pass him. After all these years studying under her, he found that he enjoyed school, though he wasn't sure if it was a testament to Monica or to the utterly boring life that they led, devoid of other people and largely lacking in more regular forms of entertainment.

This semester, as chosen by the limited options in the bookstore, would cover Mexican art, Roman political oratory, and the novels of Carlos Fuentes (with all his papers to be written in Spanish), as well as a continuation of Calculus, which they were both learning together. _I am so glad religious studies didn't require me to take Calc_, she often thought, usually when he had to explain the answers to her. She wasn't an idiot by any means, but found the subject a little less than fascinating and enjoyed the camaraderie of working at it together, rather than having to teach it herself.

The town had a little folk art museum, which went along perfectly with the art class, even if the museum's offerings were not the type included in Gibson's book on art history, but it was a good way to make sure he understood the concepts. They hadn't been in there long before Gibson was aware of a group of schoolgirls making their way to the building. He tried very hard to pay attention to Monica, as she explained the painting before him, but by the time the girls actually entered, he was incapable.

"She's pretty," Monica whispered into his ear, correctly guessing which girl he was staring at.

Gibson turned bright red and looked back at the painting. "She's, like, 15," he said.

"Yes. Look but don't touch."

He rolled his eyes, though she couldn't see.

She continued on with her talk, but Gibson was definitely not listening. He hopped back into the girl's head, even though she was too young. He had to take every advantage he could to understand the female species.

There was a tap on his shoulder. He looked at Monica. "You're not even trying to fake paying attention any more," she said.

"Sorry."

"We've had this discussion before," she whispered, and he didn't need to pop into her mind to know what she was going to say. He sighed and looked up at her as she continued. "If she's not a threat to your life, then you have no right to be in there, invading her privacy. It's rude, it's violating, and it's unethical."

_Oh god,_ he thought, _Not the ethics conversation again._

She'd been trying for a few months now to break him of what she considered a childish failing – his mental snooping. She was willing to make exceptions to some degree between the four of them, for they were family, but she wanted him to stop snooping on unsuspecting and innocent people. A few more seconds of hushed lecturing and then she led him to another room, away from the girls, not that it could keep him from poking around in all their heads, trying to find out what they thought of him, if they had noticed him at all.

They were surprisingly polite. No one seemed to think ill of him, some thought he seemed very nice himself (apparently he had let slip a dopey smile), and others wondered who he was and if he went to the boy's school. He'd never had such an all-around positive impression on any such large group, not since before puberty, back in the days when he was an adorable little chess prodigy. His cheeks reddened and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

"Obviously we're going to need to reschedule our field trip," said Monica, only slightly amused. He was in her mind immediately – it was second nature to him really – and his eyes flew open. She was thinking that John ought to sit him down and not only give him the talk – The Talk! – man to man, but give him pointers as well.

"No. No, no, no, no, no," he said, shaking his head simultaneously.

Monica gave him a smile. "Could be good for you."

"No way. I can't talk to John about stuff like that."

It was Monica's turn to use his signature response and shrug. She tilted her head towards the door, signaling that she really did mean the field trip was over.

John wasn't too keen on the idea either. "Mon, I can't talk to him about that."

"That's exactly what he said."

"Well, I guess we're both right."

"John," she said, sitting down on the bed as he got ready for the night, "I think it's time for you to step up a little more. I know Gibson and I click, and I honestly don't mind being his teacher, but there are some things that it's more appropriate for you to do. And really, the two of you need to be spending more time together. He's a good kid… young man," she corrected herself, "but even he could use more guidance, especially from someone like you."

"Geez," he said, his face scrunched up with confusion and dislike, "I don't even know what to say to him."

"I know. You never really have. So, time to fix that."

"You don't really mean for me to talk to him about sex?" Monica was nodding. "I thought you did that already."

"Briefly. That was a long time ago. He was still a kid. It's time for someone to talk to him like a man."

John rubbed his face with his hands. "I cannot believe you want me to do this."

She smiled and got under the covers next to her sleeping daughter. "You'll do fine. Just wait till you have to give her The Talk." She could barely stifle her laughter, and even John managed to catch it, getting into the other side of the bed with a big smile.

"You are so going to pay for this, Monica Reyes de Doggett."

"Looking forward to that, Senor Doggett." They shared a goodnight kiss over their daughter's head and turned off the light.

Gibson was getting pretty good at staying out of Monica's head during lessons – she often tested him by thinking about intimate female things that he never wanted to hear about – and so it wasn't until a few minutes after they'd finished for the day that he realized Monica meant for him to go out with John that very evening.

"No way. I don't want to. I was going to go to Gabriel's to play xBox." For the first time in five years, Gibson had a friend, of sorts, a 17-year-old boy who lived on the first floor. They really didn't talk much, but got along great, and Gabriel had an xBox, a slew of games, and a pack of little sisters who were not fun to play with. "He got Justice League Heroes for Dia de los Reyes, and I haven't even had a chance to play it with him yet."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Monica. "And anyway, you've still got an hour till dinner. Why don't you go now?"

He screwed up his face. "An hour's not long enough."

Monica gave him a look of exasperation. "I promise you can have all of tomorrow evening – you can even stay at Gabriel's for dinner – but tonight, one hour. Take it or leave it."

He scowled and left.

Gabriel wasn't actually expecting him, but welcomed him in just the same, and the boys were soon settled on to the couch, controllers in hand, completely absorbed in their game. Almost. Gibson was picking at Gabriel's brain, trying to see if there was anything about girls in there at all. His friend never talked about them, and seemed almost bashful if Gibson so much as hinted at the subject. It seemed odd to Gibson, for there were very few teenage boys, or men of any age, who didn't seem to think about sex a great deal. In Mexico, especially, sex played a huge role in men's thoughts. The country dripped with machismo , and most men seemed to think it was their right to get as much pussy as they could. Gibson, despite his desperation to get laid, still found their machismo distasteful and repulsive, especially the way they thought about and treated women. Gabriel was definitely straight, and he liked girls, but was always quick to push away the most innocent daydreams as improper. Of this Gibson approved, even if it was a bit odd.

They played for over an hour before Gibson reluctantly dragged himself back home, where John was just setting the evening's meal on the table. A quick peek into his thoughts revealed that he wasn't any more pleased about Monica's plan than Gibson was.

Monica refused to give in to their protestations, and sent them to the local pool hall. John ordered two of the bartenders last Noche Buenas, a strong, dark Christmas beer of which he was quite fond, and handed one to Gibson, who wasn't as taken with the flavor, but drank it as fast as he could to help him get through the evening. The first two games they played in relative silence, Gibson concentrating with all his might on angles and English and the girl named Ramona who hanging out a few tables down with her friends. John finished off his Noche Buenas quickly and started on a Negra Modelo, trying to pace himself a little better. He hadn't gotten drunk in nearly five years now, not that it was a hobby of his beforehand. But with the boy, a baby, a wife, and the life they led, alcohol was a dangerous pastime.

He took the liberty of thinking about the boy, who at 19 was certainly no longer a boy, but John just couldn't shake it from his head. He hadn't grown more than a couple inches since they'd been thrown together. He stood four feet, eleven inches now, cruelly denied that last inch to push him into the five foot category. Once an adorable child, now he bore a plain face, neither ugly nor handsome, with small thin lips that smiled even more rarely in John's presence. His hair was shaggy and he still stubbornly clung to a mustache that just looked ridiculous on him.

When John was 19, he'd already been a Marine for a year. He was tall, handsome, a bit brash and cocksure, and had no problem with women. Even though Gibson could handle a rifle and a handgun with relative ease – not to mention a passing ability with a bow and arrow during their year in the jungle –John couldn't imagine him being sent off to war, running through the desert, chucking grenades, or firing off an M16, and he certainly couldn't imagine him sweet talking a girl, being suave, or anything more than that. How was he supposed to give advice to someone who wasn't the least bit like him?

He sank a ball in a particularly impressive combination, banking the cue ball first before it tapped one and nudged his six ball into the pocket, nice and slow. When he looked up to smile with pride at the boy, he found Gibson's attention diverted. There were a few girls in his line of vision, and John wasn't sure which one he was looking at, and it just reminded him why Monica had sent them off in the first place.

"You know her?" he asked, casually.

"Not really," said Gibson, getting up to take a turn at the table.

"Still my shot," said John. "What does 'not really' mean?"

Gibson shrugged. "I mean, she lives nearby, I've seen her at the market, and I've read her thoughts, so I know everthing _about _her, but I don't actually _know_ her."

John was surprised with how much the boy had shared just then. "She single?" he asked, still not entirely comfortable with having to play a part in this conversation.

"Yeah."

"Has she noticed you?"

"I guess."

"She nice?" The conversation was about as much fun as having his teeth pulled. He took a shot and missed.

Gibson shrugged and went up to the table. For a couple minutes he was able to ignore John, forget about Ramona, and just concentrate on what he needed to do sink a string of balls into the pockets.

"You realize, kid, she doesn't read minds like you. You're not going to get anywhere unless you talk to her."

"I know. It's just…weird. Talking to girls. You know?"

"Never gets any easier. You're in a position to know this better than anyone."

Gibson sighed. Ramona knew full well that he kept looking at her, and the strangest thing was, she smiled when he looked. And her thoughts were friendly and kind. While she wasn't exactly hoping he would come talk to her, she seemed pleased by the attention. This reminded him of something he'd actually been meaning to talk to John about, something that had absolutely nothing to do with sex, which he still did not intend to discuss.

"Have you noticed how everyone here is so… nice?"

John chalked his cue. "Yeah, I have. It's jarring, huh? It's not nice in a creepy, brainwashed kind of way, but it certainly doesn't seem normal. What do you think? You've got access into their heads, what's it like in there?"

He squinted his eyes as he tried to explain. "Not creepy at all. Everyone has been genuinely nice. Which I don't understand. Even when they get mad or frustrated, they seem so… rational. It's like nothing really bothers them. Like nothing _can_ bother them."

"Maybe that's just the way they are. Maybe we lucked into the nicest town in all of Mexico."

"It's weird, but I think you're right. I like it here."

John smiled. "Yeah, I do too. Maybe it's time to stop running for a while and try settling down. It'd give you a better chance with that girl."

Gibson blushed and took a sip from his can of Sol Limon y Sal. "I don't want to talk about the stuff that Mon… um, Mom wants us to talk about."

"Me either."

"Can we just tell her we did?"

John laughed. "You want a tip about women? Do not lie to them about doing something they told you to do. You realize how pissed she'd be if I told her I talked to you and then she found out I didn't? No thank you. Come over here," he said, mentioning to the flimsy table and plastic chairs near their pool table. He emptied his beer in one long drink, took a deep breath, and began.

"Alright. Girls. Women. You gotta talk to them first, like I said, or they don't know that you exist or that you're interested. Which is the next point, how to tell them you're interested. Compliment them, but not too much. You've got an advantage that no one else does – you can actually tell when you're going too far, when you're not going far enough, and what they really want you to say."

"Mon says that I shouldn't do that."

"Oh, I know what she says. And I get it. But you think I wouldn't have gone into her thoughts if I could have, back in the day? I would have saved myself years of agony and confusion."

Gibson snorted in response. "Yeah, right. I remember what kind of dork you were back then. You knew full well she liked you and even when I told you, you still couldn't believe."

His teasing put John at ease and he was able to chuckle. "Point taken. Still, there are days when I wouldn't mind a quick peek inside her mind. Anyway, where was I? Ok, you gotta talk to her. And you gotta ask her out. Take her somewhere nice. And you pay. You might want to think about getting a job, if you're serious about someone, because let me tell you, dating can be ex-pen-sive," he said, emphasizing the word.

"You've never even taken Monica on a date," accused Gibson.

"Sure I have. Plenty. We just have a mind-reading chaperone with us at all times. And a baby who would rather we pay her all the attention."

"It's not the same."

"I know," said John, feeling a little downhearted. "Trust me, we ever get to a point in our lives where we don't have to hide, I'm going to hire a babysitter and take her out some place fancy. Now, see, here's a lesson… I wasted my time, not sure what to do, all those years. I should have been wining and dining her properly instead. Don't follow my example. Be brave. Be gentlemanly. Go talk to her now."

"I am not ready to do that," admitted Gibson, his cheeks burning red again.

"Ok, well, then, I guess we'll have to continue on with our conversation."

Gibson looked at John, well aware that he was about to discuss sex, and he looked at Ramona, who was talking and laughing with her friends, her mind not occupied with him in the slightest. She scared him more. He looked back to John. "Let's get this over with quick."

"Don't have sex. Ever. But if you do, use a condom. I think that's all I'm supposed to tell you. Also, I don't ever want to know."

"And I don't ever want to tell you. So, deal."


	53. Chapter 53

They returned home to an empty apartment. John's heart was in his throat immediately. But Gibson quickly found the note left for them on the table that said Monica and Vera were at Soledad's.

"Soledad? Who the hell is Soledad?" asked John, his fear having shifted into anger.

"I don't know. We've met so many people since we got here, I can't keep them all straight."

"It's nearly ten fucking o'clock at night," said John, venomously. "Sorry, kid."

"I don't care if you cuss."

"Good, 'cause there might be more. She's got ten more minutes to get back before I drag you out to track her down."

Gibson didn't like his anger, but he understood that it was fueled by fear, and he understood the fear part. After all these years, the thought of just going out on one's own was terrifying. He knew they worried about him, but he also knew that they were able to acknowledge that he had an advantage they didn't. And really, unless the four of them were in the same room together, there were always undercurrents of fear in someone's head.

He joined John on the couch, and started trying to read the next chapter of _La Región Más Transparente_, but found it hard to concentrate, especially given how antsy his companion was. Just seconds before the clock turned 10, Monica walked in the door, a sleeping Vera on her shoulder.

"Where the hell have you been?" asked John in an angry whisper.

She hushed him, heading to the bedroom to put Vera to bed. When she returned, she was as cheery as ever, her smile completely unfazed by the greeting she'd received. "I've had the most amazing evening. I can't believe how wonderful it is to have a friend again."

"No, you can't just waltz in here, happy as a clam, when I've been sitting here worried out of my mind about you."

She came over to him, still smiling, took his hands in hers and kissed him. "John, it's ok. We're ok here. I think the danger has past. I think we're safe. And I think it's time we were allowed to drop our guard a little and relax."

"No, it's never time for that. Not entirely. That's when you get caught." He was trying to maintain his anger, but she was still holding his hands, still smiling. "Who's Soledad? You can't just run off to spend time with someone we don't know. What if something had gone wrong? How would we have found you?"

"You're being irrational, John. You would have used Gibson to find me. And since you were still here, I have to assume you did not beat me home by much." John looked away in concession. "Soledad is the woman at whose house we saw the first Posoda. Remember her? She had the little girl about Vera's age? Her little brother Raul was the Joseph that night. We had a great evening together. She's a teacher at San Pedro, the school connected to the church we attended for midnight Mass. Very bright. We talked forever, and Vera made a new friend. Her first friend, I suppose." She kissed him again and looked toward Gibson. "How did the talk go?"

John and Gibson both answered fine and nothing more. Gibson excused himself to go finish his chapter in his room, while Monica pulled her husband toward the bedroom.

He saw that she had put Vera down in the foldaway crib, which meant only one thing, not that he couldn't tell from the way she was pressing herself against him. "Don't think that I'm not mad," he said.

"I understand. That was thoughtless of me, and I apologize. I'll be more careful next time. I just wasn't thinking. Soledad came over with Isabel and asked if I wanted to go to Mass with her and for some reason, I said yes. And next thing I knew, we were at her house, talking away, and the girls were playing and I just assumed you would be out late. I'm sorry, really, John. I don't want to make you angry, ever."

He took a strand of her hair in his fingers and looked at her perplexed. "You went to Mass?"

"Yeah, I know, right? Me, at Mass." She held on to him for a few quiet moments. "So, am I forgiven?"

How could he possibly stay mad at her? Not with those olive eyes, wide and sincere, looking into his, so expectantly. How could he do anything but follow her to the bed, undress her slowly, appreciate every part of her, thankful that nothing had happened, that she was well and here with him, making love to him with an intense focus that blocked out everything else around them. He soon forgot his fears and fell under her spell.

The next morning, while John was working, Monica, Vera and Gibson took off for the market. He noticed, uneasily, that Monica cheerily decided to leaver her weapon at home, and when he called her on it, she laughed it off.

"You're acting really weird, Monica."

"How do you figure that? I just feel like I can breathe again, for the first time in years. It feels nice here, safe. Don't you feel it?"

"I never feel that way," he answered, stonily. He slipped his own gun into the holster he almost never carried and decided that as crazy as she was, she deserved a break. He could take care of himself; it was childish to keep expecting them to be his full-time bodyguards.

He kept his mind's eye on her as she wandered through the stalls, Vera slung on her back, buying vegetables and chatting with merchants. He had other business to attend to. At the far end of the market was the stall of a woman who sold plasticsware. And most days, one could find her 19-year-old daughter Ramona helping her out. Today was one of those days.

The Ramona of the night before who had been relaxed and jovial with her friends was replaced by the nervous one who bit her lip at his sudden appearance. She was shy and worried that she would say the wrong thing, her hands gripping a red plastic bowl so hard he could see the whites of her knuckles.

"Hola," he said, his voice as calm as he could make it, "Me llamo Sam." It was simple.

She responded in a whisper that her name was Ramona. Attention from boys was not all that common for her. She was plain, bordering on ugly, having come out looking far more like her father than her pretty mother.

He watched her mind as it was flooded with images from various telenovas, men kissing women's hands, candlelit dinners at expensive restaurants, weddings with white flowing gowns, walks on the beach with men who stop and profess their undying love to the woman beside them. He reached out a hand to her and she tremulously put her own in it, nearly fainting when he pulled it to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on it. "I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Ramona." He smiled, his own heart racing uncontrollably.

"You are new here?" she asked, immediately chastising herself for such a stupid comment – of course he was new – but she tried to look confident. Before he could answer, her mother called to her, and he knew the woman both distrusted him and felt like he would have to prove himself if he were truly interested in her daughter. "I have to go help my mother," she said.

"I understand. Perhaps I will see you again soon?"

She blushed and started thinking about _La Fea Más Bella_, her favorite telenova, about the ugly girl who defied the odds and found success, riches, and eventually the love of her life. "Maybe," she said, before she slipped away.

Gibson had a very hard time concentrating during his lessons. Monica kept eyeing him, but she wasn't about to let it interfere with class, and he had no desire to tell her about his morning adventure anyway.

John came home, tossed Vera up into the air a half dozen times, greeted his wife with a kiss, and scrubbed the grime from his hands. It was Gibson's turn to organize dinner, with John as his sous-chef and Vera-wrangler, and Monica's turn to indulge herself in a hot bath.

"I talked to her today," he said as he sautéed the peppers and onions John had chopped up for him.

"Yeah," said John, curious if Gibson could actually pull it off.

"I cheated. I knew what she wanted me to do and I did it."

"What do you mean?"

"No, not _it_. Geez. She likes all those silly telenovas, and I knew she thought it was romantic if I kissed her hand, and so I did."

John cracked up. "Seriously?"

"She liked it. She was practically swooning. And then her mother called her away. But I told her I'd be back tomorrow."

"Well, good job, kid. I suppose all that matters is that you impressed her."

Gibson beamed, not that anyone could tell by looking at him. He'd wanted to tell someone all day about it, and by the time John came home, he just couldn't hold it to himself any longer.

"So," said John over dinner, "Did you hear that Gibson's got himself a girlfriend?"

"John!" said Gibson.

"Is that why you disappeared this morning?"

"Maybe," he replied, slinking down in his chair.

"I think we're embarrassing him," Monica said. "We should change the subject." Gibson nodded. "Do you remember how well Luke got along with other children when he was this age?" she asked, referring to the child who sat in her lap, picking at the food on her plate.

"I guess he was just like all the other kids. She's still a baby, Mon, so if you're worried about something, you shouldn't be."

"She wouldn't share at all with Isabel."

"Most toddlers don't know how to share."

"Isabel knew. She kept bringing her more toys. She was enjoying it, even though she wasn't getting to play, because any time she sat down with something, Vera would grab it away."

"She's just never been around other kids. Or lots of toys. She'll learn, won't you sweetie?"

"Want baby!"

"You and that doll. I swear, it was embarrassing the fit she threw when I told her we had to put away the toys. Soledad was so nice about it, even offered to let her take it home, but I didn't want to give in to her."

"It's really nothing to stress over. Let them keep playing and you'll see that she'll figure it out. And she certainly knows how to share your food with you."

"I suppose." She took a bite herself and looked contemplatively at her child. "Do you think maybe we should have her baptized?" she asked earnestly.

John slowed his chewing down, swallowed, and stared at her.

"I know, I know," she laughed, "It's shocking, isn't it? But really, it's not that big of a deal. It would make my mother happy."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Is this about your mother?" He was completely baffled.

"Well, no. But I don't see why we shouldn't. She's 18 months old. It's just one little sacrament. Could be a good thing."

He tilted his head, trying to figure out who in the world was sitting next to him at the table and talking to him. "One little sacrament? Getting married in a Catholic church had you upset for days, and now you're all nonchalant?"

"She'll be fine. But if she decides to be Catholic one day, she would appreciate this."

"And if she decides she doesn't want to be Catholic, she might not like that you did this to her. Let it be her decision, when she's old enough to understand."

"You said yourself you didn't mind if our children were raised in the Church."

"I never said I'd force them to be, though. Look, Mon, if you want to take her there, I'm ok with that. Really. But I think she should be allowed to decide if she wants to be Catholic. Or Buddhist. Or Muslim. Or new-agey, spiritual, crystal-worshipping, numerology-practicing something else. Or nothing at all. It's her decision, not ours. And if I recall, you weren't too pleased to have been raised Catholic, so why would you do that to her?"

Monica kissed Vera's head and smiled at John. "Oh, I don't know. It just struck me as the right thing to do. But you're right, we should let her decide when she's older. V, off to Daddy now, Mama's going to start on the dishes."

Gibson and John looked at each other. _What the hell? Is there something I'm missing?_ John asked.

Gibson couldn't answer, of course, not without Monica hearing, and gave John a look of uncertainty in response. He had to wait until Vera's bedtime, while Monica was out of the room feeding her.

"You remember how I told you that everyone here was always so… nice? And rational? And happy?"

"Mmhm."

"I think she's drunk the Kool-Aid."

"You think it's something to worry about? Should we get out of here?"

"I don't know. Not yet at least. Not until we know for sure if there's something wrong."

"You're not just saying that because of your little crush?"

"She's not a crush. And no. I'm saying that because I honestly don't know. Anyway, Monica's still Monica. But she's kind of like Monica on happy pills. It's weird."

"I don't know whether to be worried or happy for her."

"Me either… she stopped carrying her gun today."

"What? That's not ok. What if something happens to you?"

"No, it's fine. I have one. I can take care of myself. I'm not saying that to rat her out. It's just part of the weirdness. I thought you should know."

Even though Vera was still awake, her heavy eyelids springing open when her father entered, John came in anyway, laying down on his side of the bed, letting Vera come curl up with him for a change. He brushed her hair with his fingers until she grew drowsy again, staring at his wife whose head rested on her pillow, a smile still on her face, her entire self glowing with joy. When Vera was fast asleep, Monica gently picked her up and laid her into the crib.

"I'm not really up to it tonight, Mon," he said, his voice stern enough to make her realize there was something else wrong besides her wearing him out. Which she was – he figured they'd made love nearly every single night since theyd moved there, and he was really aching for a full night's rest. "I think we need to talk."

"What's wrong? Did Gibson tell you about my no longer carrying a gun?" she asked, completely open with her admission.

He studied her again and found himself wishing for the umpteenth time since meeting Gibson Praise that he too could read minds. "It worries me. It's not like you to shirk your duties."

"I have multiple duties. Sometimes they conflict. I'm somebody's mother now. And Gibson told us himself that he didn't want us putting him before Vera."

"So you're no longer thinking of yourself as Gibson's surrogate mother?"

"It's not the same. He's older and can watch out for himself far better than I can. Vera needs me to keep her safe. And packing a gun everywhere I go is probably not the best way to do that." Her eyes flickered with concern as she watched him watch her. "She's getting so big. She's into everything. I just don't feel like keeping weapons around is a good idea."

"That's why we all agreed to keep them locked up when we weren't carrying them, and why we always make sure the safety's on. You know I would never live with myself if anything happened to her."

"I just can't bear the thought of my baby riding in a sling just inches from such a deadly weapon."

"Ok, I get that. That's entirely reasonable. I was just worried about you. You haven't been quite the same lately."

"I know. I feel… wonderful. I don't think I've felt this relaxed in years. And I think that might be what's bothering you tonight." She moved around so that she was behind him and began to rub his shoulders, hitting all the right pressure points, until he felt weeks of tension let loose their hold on him. Maybe that's all it was, he decided, and at some point, half an hour later, as she worked on his back, he rolled over, pulled her down with him, and decided that he could handle one more night of sleep deprivation.

"So I should show up around 3?" Gibson asked John at breakfast. John stared back at him blankly, his morning caffeine still not working, and he thought about why he was so tired that morning, unintentionally sharing that with him. Gibson ignored it, as he often did. "The job?"

"What? Oh, that. Yeah, I was going to tell you."

"You didn't have to do that for me."

"Hey, I just asked. That wasn't any skin off my back."

Gibson sighed. "I know you're just giving me part of your job."

"Only the part I dislike the most. I have no problem with you sweeping the floors and putting away car parts for me. I'm looking forward to a little siesta each afternoon."

"I bet you are."

Nearly every morning brought a trip to the market – to buy fresh fruits and vegetables – and another visit to Ramona. He followed the same script, as did Ramona, as did her mother. He would come and tell her what she wanted to hear, she would blush while her mind exploded with happiness, and her mother would call her away. On the fourth day, she shooed him away, and he knew he was making progress if her mother was finally acknowledging him.

"I asked her out today," he told John when he arrived at the garage, roughly six days since he'd first spoken to her.

"Good for you! What did she say?"

"Yes. I think. Well, she said yes to me. But she didn't tell her mother and she's going to lie and say she's spending the evening with friends. Not that she told me that."

"Well, let's hope you don't get caught in that lie."

"I don't think I can afford to take her anywhere nice. Not like the kind of places she imagines. I think she thinks I'm rich, but only because of those silly telenovas."

John narrowed his eyes. "I don't read minds, but I think you're asking for money."

"A loan. That's all. You know where I live. It's not like I can escape paying you back. And anyway, I know you're already thinking you'll do it."

"Dammit, kid. You gotta let people be nice to you, and quit stealing their chances to surprise you."

Money was not what it used to be. With John picking up jobs when he could, and the year in the jungle, they had managed to keep their last ten thousand dollars safe, each laying claim to three thousand dollars in case of separation, and the remaining thousand a floating fund for the times when they had no income. John's current job netted him about $80 a week – oh how the mighty had fallen – but in Mexico it went a long way, though not far enough to pull them out of near poverty. Gibson wanted desperately to have new clothes for the evening, but he could not be so greedy. Jeans and a long-sleeve polo, the least faded article of clothing he owned, would have to do.

Still, when the big night came around, he felt John thinking about him and ventured out of his room for inspection. He looked the same as always. John was mentally kicking himself, wishing he'd done more, feeling sorry for him and their circumstances, and vowing to buy him some new clothes, even if it meant picking up some extra work somewhere. Gibson was touched; so rarely did John's thoughts toward him gravitate to this level. But he wouldn't accept anything from him, not beyond what was already being done.

What he did want for the evening was privacy. In the last seven months, they'd done as best as they could to grant him his promised independence without shirking their duties to protect him, but that did not mean that either John or Monica was able to do so easily, especially after so many years of watching after him as closely as they had. His absences of greater than fifteen minutes were duly noted and fretted over. When he spent more than the allotted time at Gabriel's, their minds screamed at him to at least materialize for a minute to confirm his safety. And now as much as he wanted privacy for the evening, though, John was unwilling to give it to him. They didn't talk about it, for they didn't have to, but John followed him, keeping a respectful distance. Gibson glared at him to go away and tried to signal for him to leave, but John was too far away and the sky was already dark, so his gesturing went unnoticed.

There was a gazebo in the town center that the teenagers and young adults liked to use as a meet-up point. He found her mind long before he got there, and knew that she was excited to finally be there amongst them, worried that her clothes were not right, or that he would stand her up. She knew he wasn't as good looking as the other boys that were gathering and leaving with their dates, but she didn't care. He had so far proven himself to be a decent man, which went a long way with her romantic heart. Gibson walked into the square and for a minute forgot he was being followed and only had eyes for the girl with whom he hoped to score.

He wasn't deluded into thinking he liked her, but she was. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware that this could be a problem, but in the front of the his mind, he realized it was his best chance at getting her to have sex with him. It did strike him, however, that her thoughts didn't seem to wander to that. She seemed more concerned with kisses and material displays of affection (which was why he had a small box of her favorite chocolates tucked under his arm) and whether or not he would prove to be a good husband, just skipping right over all of the bedroom business.

But even though he didn't like her like that, he still found the whole experience exhilarating – he was doing something normal, for once. Hell, he was on a roll these days, with a friend and a girlfriend, a part-time job and a seemingly nuclear family.

When she saw him, she lost all sense of restraint and ran to him. "You came!"

"Of course. I've been looking forward to this all day." He gave her the chocolate and suddenly felt embarrassed. Not with her, but with the minds that were now noticing that the new kid in town had taken a liking to Ramona. And he furrowed his brow when he picked up the thoughts of a few of the other boys and young men, all sitting opposite the gazebo as if they were watching it, thinking of her as Ramona la Fea and him as Gringo le Feo – ugly. "They are not very nice to you?" he asked, motioning towards them with his head, slowly realizing that this was the first time he'd really noticed animosity from any of the residents of the town.

"What?" she asked, delighted with her chocolates and oblivious to anything else. "Oh, those men? No, I suppose not." She was not the least bit bothered by them.

He took her hand, wondering why his hands were suddenly clammy and grateful that she didn't care, despite noticing it. They headed towards a little restaurant a few blocks from the square, which had the lure of a giant space heater to keep their customers warm, a novelty among the restaurants of Mexico, even in the winter. He did everything he was supposed to – he opened the door for her, pulled out her chair, listened to her tell all the dull details of her day, and go on and on about her girl friends.

He heard her think it a second before she said it, and accidentally looked too soon, which even slow-witted Ramona took notice of. "Is that your father?" she asked, indicating the man in the dirty white cowboy hat, leaning next to the window so he could peek in from time to time.

Gibson cringed outwardly and excused himself from the table.

"You've got to leave now. She totally noticed you. Do you realize how lame you're making me look? I promise I will be home by 10 o'clock, ok?"

John looked a little hurt and a lot worried. Gibson held his ground. After a standoff of a few seconds, John dropped his shoulders. "Ok. But if you'e late, you know I will track you down."

"I know. I won't be late. I promise."

Alone for real, he continued on his date, doing and saying whatever she wanted, and pushing her as much as he could. This only got him so far as being able to hold her hand across the table, stroking it with his thumb, amazing that something so minor seemed so amazing to them both. No, he wouldn't be pushing her for sex tonight; anyway, he hadn't yet figured out when and where such an act could occur without her parents and his guardians all finding out.

So instead, he walked her home – she told him it was ok, that her mother would rather see him return her safely than take her away before he had proven himself. Her mother was watching from the window as they approached, more curious than anything, but ready to slip back into her role as angry mother. He smiled up at her and she nodded curtly, but he knew she was smiling inside. Ramona moved closer to the door, just out sight and Gibson followed her. She wanted him to kiss her, and he was surprised to find himself nervous. 19 years old and the only kissing he'd ever done was a fuzzy memory at best, tainted with the smell of donkeys, manure, and hay. How pathetic was that?

He took her hand again, for that was conquered territory, licked his lips, and followed the script in her head. His hand slid under her hair and clasped the back of her neck, his head tilted to the right, his tongue slipped into her mouth just when she wanted him to do that. Having never been kissed herself, she had certainly watched enough telenovas to have figured out exactly what she wanted.

When they broke apart and after she'd giggled nervously, she asked him what had been on her mind since he'd turned to look at his father in the window. "Do you read minds?" she asked, not sure whether this was truly possible, or if she was simply living in a dream where reality as she knew it failed to exist.

He was prepared, somewhat, and shook his head. "No. But people say I'm a lucky guesser. Why?"

"You just seem to always know what I want."

"Maybe that is because I am the one who is meant for you."

"But I don't feel like I know what you want."

She couldn't have said a nicer combination of words.

"I want… what every man wants."

"Oh," she said, crestfallen. She knew what that meant. In reality, it meant machismo and men who would screw you and leave you, or marry you and screw dozens of other women. That was how men were. But on television, men still wanted sex, but they were kinder and it usually meant that they were in love.

"No, I may want what every man wants, but I'm not like all of them. I'm a good man. I don't want to hurt you. I want to show you how I feel about you, that's all."

She grew flustered. Having only just experienced her first kiss, it was far too soon for her to enter on a discussion about sex. "I should go," she said, and Gibson knew she was just nervous.

"May I kiss you again?" he asked politely, and she conceded, feeling more relieved afterward.

He started walking home with great elation in his heart. He'd done well, and he knew it. His mind was suddenly occupied with thoughts of how he would bed her, what it would be like to truly make love to a woman.

But suddenly he was aware that he was not exactly alone. He was being followed, but this time not by John. Two boys, possibly two of the boys from the square, were following him with the intention of talking to him, possibly with their fists. Gibson knew he could not outrun them, and he knew that it was only a matter of time before they caught up to him at their present speed. He walked a little more and turned to face them outside a large apartment building where there were a few streetlights. It was perhaps the safest place to have such a meeting.

They were taller than him, meaner, and far more familiar with how to hit someone than he was. Gibson had never hit anyone in his life, and he was pretty sure this was not the time to start trying. He just hoped that they didn't rough him up enough to find his pistol tucked in the waist of his jeans. At least they had no weapons.

"What do you think you were doing with Ramona, you ugly little gringo?"

"I like her. We just went out for dinner."

The taller of the boys was staring him down, but staring was a skill at which Gibson exceeded.

"Why are you so concerned with us?" asked Gibson, finding the reason behind the boy's anger to be strangely missing.

"We don't like it when someone like you comes in and starts thinking all the women in our town belong to him."

"We just like each other," he said, very aware that the other boy was starting to circle, with the intent of surrounding him as best as two people could. "What's wrong with that?"


	54. Chapter 54

A/N: I swear this insanely long and dull chapter is almost over. If it wasn't past midnight already, I would just spend another hour finishing it up, since it's already finished in my head. The next plot line is very drippy and is constantly demanding my attention over this one. Thanks for your patience! Feel free to leave me some brutal reviews on these Gibson-centric chapters. I can take it - and then hopefully use your comments to make it better in the final draft.

* * *

Their thoughts were coming at him in irregular waves. Gibson had peeked plenty of times into the minds of the mentally ill, and was familiar with the disjointedness of the schizophrenic mind. That was the closest he could come to explaining what was occurring in the head's of the two boys. He felt queasy and wished that someone would walk by or look out their window. Even though he wasn't a true chess prodigy, he was a chess expert and could easily beat most people without cheating. He knew how to manipulate others, how to weasel his way out of a difficult situation. But now, standing before two people whose thoughts seemed to change with each passing breath, he was not so sure. He looked at his watch, wishing he hadn't been so diligent about returning home on time. It was only 9:36. No one would even come looking for him for another 45 minutes, he figured.

"What, are we keeping you from your next date?"

"No, my parents are expecting me home soon. I don't want them to worry about me."

"How sweet! Feo thinks his parents want him to come home again." Gibson felt an undercurrent of anger ripple through him and tightened his fists.

"I know it's hard for you to believe," he said, as calmly as he could, "for obviously your own parents have no desire to see your ugly faces, or else you wouldn't be hanging out on the streets, stalking people."

The boys suddenly cracked up, perplexing Gibson, who was frantically trying to stay ahead of them and their every changing thoughts. He only had a second to prepare for being slammed against the wall of the building, one hand pressing hard on his sternum, the other a raised fist aimed for his face.

"We're watching you," said the taller boy, his mind flooded with violence and Gibson wasn't sure whether the images he saw were things he'd done or simply wanted to do. He let go again and laughed and the two boys walked off together, their minds already clear of what had just transpired. Gibson stood there for a few seconds in shock and then ran home as fast as he could. He arrived out of breath just minutes later and waited until he had recovered from the run.

John and Monica were curled up together on the couch watching an American TV show dubbed in Spanish. With a dreamy, far off look in her eye, Monica looked up at him. "We weren't expecting you back for another 15 minutes. Did it go well?"

He nodded. No way was he going to give them any details.

"And you saw her home ok?" asked John, whose pride was still hurt after being sent home. "And no problems coming back home? It's dangerous out there at night."

"Ignore John, he's just a worrywart. Eventually he'll catch on that we're safer here than anywhere else we've been, the US included, I bet."

Gibson nodded again. He wanted to tell John about the boys, but he didn't want to talk to Monica about it, for he already knew that she would just shrug it off. But they were planning to head to bed after the show was over and go at it again. Their increased sexual drives, or Monica's, really, were no doubt adding to his own misery. He mumbled a good night to them and went off to his own bed to imagine how great his own sex life would be in a short time.

When he walked back from the garage the next day, he admitted to John what had happened. "They're the first people I've come across that weren't nice like everyone else. But they weren't normal. Like they were crazy or something. But even that wasn't normal crazy."

"Something strange is definitely going on in this town, huh?"

"Oh yeah."

"Listen, I know you just got yourself a girlfriend and all, but I think it really might be wise to leave. Monica's getting too cozy and too friendly, and it's only a matter of time before someone recognizes us or she tells a little more than she should."

Gibson didn't want to hear this. "I don't want to leave. And really, Monica is right – this town is a lot safer than any other we've been in. One whole month with only this gang that I never even noticed until last night? You should just talk to her and keep on her case about being careful. But really, she hasn't felt like telling anyone. She seems happy to be Patricia and she's been sticking to our story, no problem."

"You going out again tonight?"

"Yeah… ok, sure." John wanted to walk there and back with him, to see for himself the gang. "They were in the square last night. If they're there when we show up, I'll point them out. But you have to leave after that, ok? No coming back until I'm ready to go."

But when they arrived, the gang was nowhere to be seen. Gibson made it through another date, but just barely. Ramona was nice, sweet, and completely dull. She had little schooling, and Gibson doubted that even if she'd been in school from kindergarten thought high school, it wouldn't have done much for her. She was impressed, however, with his own studies, her eyes growing wide as he casually mentioned art history, books she'd never heard of, and calculus, which he had to explain to her as really, really hard math. "I am not smart enough for you," she said, hiding behind her hands, trying not to cry.

Crying was bad. He was pretty sure making her cry would get him nowhere. "Remember how you thought I could read minds?" he asked, distracting her enough that she lowered her hands so they just covered her mouth. _Si_, she thought, but was too expectant to speak. "I can't say much about that, but I do have the ability to see what a person is really like, on the inside. You see so many people who are good looking or smart or rich, but you don't know until later, or maybe never, what they're really like inside, right?"

Ramona nodded slightly as she thought about TV characters who were not what they seemed.

"So, I know that inside, no matter how much schooling you've had, no matter what you look like on the outside, that you're good inside." He was glad she could not read his mind in return, because as good as she was inside, he still wasn't all that impressed, but he could play along. "And really, you're much prettier than my last girlfriend," he said, elevating the infamous Lourdes to a much higher position.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, look, you've got such pretty skin and beautiful eyes." He reached up and touched her face, gently enough to make her shiver, which embarrassed her.

_Do you love me? _she asked, but he didn't react or answer, and she began to doubt again that he was telepathic.

He noticed John walk by and realized that it was already time to go. Apparently the tedium of talking to her wasn't as bad as he made it out to be. He nodded his head toward the door, and she saw John as well. "I should get you home. I think my father is worried."

"Does he normally walk you home?" she asked, not quite sure what to think about that. "That's strange."

Gibson sighed. "I know. But there were a lot of bad people out last night, and I think that worried him." The fact that he was quickly losing machismo points with Ramona worried him too. Nothing that could be done about that now. "Do you want to meet him?"

Her eyes grew wide with terror.

"He's really not that scary," said Gibson, allowing a half-smile. But when the exited the restaurant, John had already made himself scarce, following so far back that Ramona thought he'd left. He was grateful that when they reached Ramona's door, he slipped completely out of sight. He had no desire to witness Gibson making out with his girlfriend.

He tried his luck at being a little more forceful, which was to say kissing her longer, holding on to her arm, trying not to get too wrapped up in his desires. She was lightheaded from the sensations, and he was starting to lose his train of thought.

"I want you," he said quietly, his forehead resting against hers. "Even if you don't want me, know that I want you, ok?" He knew he was manipulating her, but at the same time, he knew it to be true. She was scared of what he wanted and not at all sure that she wanted him in that way. "Think about it, ok?"

Her eyes were darting back and forth from his, but she had no voice. He kissed her again. "Go home to your mother," he said as gently as he could manage.

He met up with John a block away and they walked back, in silence and completely undisturbed. Gibson couldn't even sense the boys from the night before.

The next morning, Monica announced that she wanted to meet Ramona. Gibson cringed. He knew that she'd talked to John during the night, that she wasn't convinced that Gibson's motives were pure, that she didn't believe that John had properly explained everything to him about how to deal with women. Ethics, ethics, ethics – that was all she seemed to be concerned about. But she didn't voice any of this, adding mentally for his benefit that she wanted to meet her to be sure, that she wanted to believe that Gibson was thinking with his head and his heart and not another part of his body, that he wouldn't behave improperly by slipping into her mind and cheating to get to know her better. He ignored her and played with Vera instead.

Ramona was much less afraid of Monica, probably because Vera helped to lessen her shyness, and because Monica had an amazing way of making anyone feel more at ease.

"You did not tell me you had a baby sister!" she said, smiling and waving at Vera who was delighted to wave back and yell, "Hola!" before bursting into giggles and squirming so much that Monica let her out of the sling. He felt overwhelmed as Ramona began to think about being a mother one day. Stocking up on condoms weeks ago was definitely a good idea.

"We thought, maybe, if you like, you could come over for dinner tomorrow after Mass. That is, if your mother approves," said Monica, nodding respectfully at the woman who stood to the side, eyeing her daughter's interactions with this strange boy and the woman who claimed to be his mother but bore no resemblance to him whatsoever. Her mother nodded in return, and Ramona agreed, trying to look pleased, but there was no hiding the terror she felt inside. They stayed for a few more minutes, Monica chatting to Ramona, Vera trying to participate.

"She's nice," said Monica as they walked back. Gibson kept his head down; he already knew this wasn't going to be a conversation about how much Monica liked her. "Are you sure you really like her? She doesn't strike me as your type."

"I don't have a type. I've never dated before."

"I know. But when a former chess champion who is now teaching me calculus falls for a girl who sells plastic cups, that just seems a little off. Not that opposites don't attract, but even John and I are…" She let the sentence trail off. _At least we're well suited for each. Intelligent. Equals. _She shook her head. "Don't listen to me. That was out of line."

"No, it's true. I think about it too. But I don't have a lot of options. And she is nice. I'm not going to marry her or anything."

"I hope she realizes that."

The following day, the entire family, known to the community now as the Petersons, showed up at Mass. Monica and Vera, or Patricia and Sarah, were already becoming familiar faces, since Monica had taken to attending Mass almost daily. James came along quite willingly, while Sam only showed up because he knew Ramona would be there, and that she would be returning with them.

John was trying to take Monica's inexplicable acceptance of Catholicism in stride, but it just didn't make sense with the woman he knew. Without faltering she dipped her fingers into the vessel of holy water and crossed herself, and then when they reached the pew, she crossed herself again and genuflected. John looked at Gibson, begging him to take note of whatever was going on in Monica's head. _Something is definitely off_. Gibson nodded his head slightly in agreement.

He'd seen Ramona before he'd even had a chance to find her mind in the packed church and he found the corners of his mouth rising up in a smile. He soon settled down into her mind, though, enjoying the familiarity of it, listening to her prayers, which did include a call for guidance regarding him and what he wanted from her. _Dear God, Tell her to go for it_, he thought and waited for God to strike him down for something of which he knew this god did not approve.

Mass started and Gibson stayed immersed in Ramona's head for a while longer. When he finally had to admit he was bored, he took a stroll through the other congregants and it was then that he found something most peculiar. He looked around, trying to figure out where it was coming from, his eyes narrowed and concerned.

"What's wrong?" John asked in a whisper, all too familiar with the look Gibson wore when he was aware of danger.

"Something's not right here."

There it was again, from a different source. And there was more… darker thoughts, scattered thoughts full of fear and terror… and the erratic mix of anger he'd come across when the boys confronted him. The mind of one of the priests was heavy with prayer, desperate prayer, begging God to relieve his congregation of their sins. And somewhere not in the nave, somewhere in the bowels of the church, perhaps, was another priest, doing something that terrified him.

"Can we go now?" asked Gibson, putting heavy emphasis on the word now. John whispered the request to Monica.

_The town or the service? I'm not leaving the service. And you can't just get up and leave._

Fine. If she wanted to stay, then so be it. He looked at Vera who was sitting mostly still in her father's lap, and then he pinched her. Hard. She screamed, drawing far too much attention.

_Gibson Andrew Praise!_ Monica mentally shouted at him and threw him an angry look. She knew exactly what had happened. He slipped out of the pew with John, his proximity only making Vera cry louder.

He apologized to her as soon as they were outside the church, but at her age, the words did little to ease her confusion and she clung tightly to her father.

"Bad Gib!" said Vera, swatting her hand at him and wearing the same scowl her mother had a few minutes earlier.

"Shhh, V, it's ok. He didn't mean to hurt you," John cooed to her "Did you really need to make her cry?" he asked, less angry than concerned.

"It got us out. I think someone is performing some sort of ritual down in the catacombs or something."

.John looked at him skeptically. "A ritual?"

"Yeah, like a spell or something. That one priest who was standing off to the side, he knew what was going on. And there was another down below who was chanting and there were candles and incense and everything. And someone tied to a chair who was… they were changing him or something."

"I'm not quite following…"

"Yeah, you are. Just because it doesn't make sense to you doesn't mean you don't understand."

John closed his eyes and sighed. "So someone is doing some sort of witchcraft in a Catholic Church and doing it to hurt someone?"

"No, that's not his intention. Both of them, they're trying to help. They're…" he paused to find the mind of the priest doing to ritual again, "they're trying to pull out all the bad stuff in everyone and put it into that guy."

Vera rested her head on her father's shoulder and he brushed away the last of her tears as he thought. "That's why everyone's so damn nice here, huh?"

"I think so. And I think those boys I ran into were like the guy in the chair right now. They're so full of everyone's bad thoughts and impulses that they could barely control themselves."

"And Monica? Why her and not us?"

"I'm not sure, but I'm guessing it has to do with the church. Like, who's got a connection to it. I think maybe they're only able to tie the spell to those with a connection. She comes to Mass all the time, maybe that's part of it."

John's thoughts were scattered as he struggled to put it all together, but Gibson could see where some of his tangents were headed.

"No, it's not necessarily a good thing, to do this to people."

"I'm just thinking, that's all."

"Don't start thinking that. This kind of good isn't the same as normal good. You can't have normal good without badness. You can't really appreciate the good without the bad." He felt sorry for John, for his mind immediately went to Luke, and he held Vera tighter, kissing her tear-streaked cheek.

"We should get Monica out of there."

"You'll never be able to do that without causing an even bigger scene than I already did. Whatever's been going on has been going on since we got here. I don't know that another two hours will make much of a difference.

They stayed outside for the remainder of the service. Vera soon forgot her woes and was enjoying a exhilarating game of chase with her daddy, while Gibson watched the rest of the transformation from the eyes of the priest performing the ritual, only briefly going in to the mind of the poor young man, the vessel as the priest called him. He checked on Monica from time to time and could understand why she wanted to stay there as years of troubles, fears and unhappiness were shed. But Ramona had been momentarily forgotten, and she was able to surprise him when she tapped him on the shoulder.

"Is your sister ok?" she asked, knowing full well that she was, for she was running and shrieking all over the square with her father, but she didn't know what else to say.

"Yeah, she's fine. I think she's still a little young to be dragged in to Mass."

Ramona stood quietly beside him, wondering why he wasn't Catholic and if he wanted to be, because she could never marry a man who wasn't Catholic like herself.

"Does it bother you that I'm not Catholic?" he asked, bringing up the subject.

"No," she lied, but only because she didn't want to upset him.

"I believe things. Lots of things. More things than the Catholic Church can hold."

She didn't understand him and wondered if such a statement qualified as blasphemy.

"Will you still come over for lunch?"

When she nodded, he took her hand and led her to a bench, where they sat watching Vera and John until the service ended. Monica met them with a smile and not a trace of anger, though she did ask Gibson if he'd apologized.

Lunch was uneventful until Gibson decided to ease into the topic that was occupying both his and John's minds.

"Who were those guys in the square that night? Do they live here? Do you know them?" he asked Ramona.

"Oh, yes, they have lived here probably as long as I have. I don't know them so well, but a few I went to school with."

"And were they like that in school?"

"I suppose. They weren't really that bad though. Maybe a few pranks here and there. Some marijuana, drinking, girls. That kind of thing."

"And now?" he asked, aware that John was almost pleased with his questioning, smiling with bemusement. Monica was doing her best to listen, but Vera was busy trying to talk to her instead.

"Now? They are meaner. I know that. They have this gang. Most of the time, though, I don't see them. They don't come out too often."

"Have there ever been any murders here?"

She looked at him with confusion, her heart speeding up with fear. She did not like this conversation.

"I'm sorry. I just… This is the nicest place we've ever lived and we want to make sure it's safe for all of us."

The memories of murders were already rushing through her mind and she wasn't sure whether or not to talk about them, her eyes darting between Gibson, John, and Monica.

"We heard that there was one just before we got here," he said, taking that information from one of the memories she glossed over.

"It was scary. Two boys and a girl. The girl was my younger sister's friend. No one knows what happened. Pilar and Rafael were found together, and the other boy, he was found a little further away, with the gun still in his hand." She bit her lip. "I don't want to talk about this. I think maybe I should go home."

"No, don't. I didn't mean to scare you," he said, casually putting his hand on her arm. "We like it here, but we heard that there was a murder, and it frightens us too. We want to make sure that our new home is as safe as it seems."

She still seemed dubious of his intent, so Gibson asked if they could go for a walk, just the two of them.

"I don't want to leave," he said, as they walked around the block. "They'll make us leave if they think it's too dangerous here. And I want to stay here, to be with you." This was not entirely far-fetched. He knew John was starting to think they should head out in a few days, especially once he heard about the murders.

"With me? I don't understand why you would want to be with me. You are smart. I saw all the books in your room. You are too smart for me."

"Smart can only get a person so far. You like me though, right?" he asked, turning it around to her, taking her hand in his.

She started biting her lip again and looked away. Had he not been in her mind, he would have thought she suddenly did not.

"Ramona?"

"No, I do. But I think maybe I shouldn't. You will find a smart girl one day and then you will forget about me."

He stopped her and pulled her aside. "Can I tell you something? Something you won't want to hear?"

Her body was flooded with fear. She imagined he already had another girl, that he had some sort of terrible, dark secret, that he didn't like her after all, so she did not answer.

"You have to promise you won't tell anyone. Ever." He looked at her with his most serious expression and she finally nodded.

"We're on the run. We didn't do anything bad. But there are a lot of people who want to hurt me and they've been looking for me for a long time. My parents took me here to keep me safe. But we have to move. A lot. I don't know how much longer we'll get to stay."

"I don't understand. Why would anyone want to hurt you?"

"I'm… different. I can't say how. But I've never been safe. My whole life has been like this. I never get to make friends. I never get to even talk to girls. And we came here and all of a sudden, I'm making friends again and I met you, and I really don't want to leave. But those murders… they will decide it's not safe here either, and then we'll have to go and I'll have to leave you."

She truly didn't understand, but there was not much more he could say to ease her confusion.

"I don't want to leave. Not yet." He touched her cheek and she trembled. "I still want you. If you knew I was leaving tomorrow, would you want me too?"

"Are you?"

"I don't know. When we leave, we usually leave immediately. There wouldn't even be time for me to come say goodbye. We would just be gone."

She couldn't say it. But she thought it, and it was good enough for him.

"If I get us a room at that hotel there," he said, pointing to the hotel right across the street – a bit of foresight on his part – "Would you show up? Tonight?"

Her forehead crinkled with confusion and anxiety. She didn't want him to leave any more than she wanted to go to bed with him. But if he was leaving…

"Maybe," she said, in a whisper.

Gibson closed his eyes and smiled. His birthday resolution was within sight. He bade her stay where she was and headed into the hotel, booking a room for that night. When he returned, he explained to her that they would both need to sneak out, and that he would meet her at her front door at 1 am. If she wasn't there, then he would understand, and they could say goodbye now, just in case he was gone in the morning. It was incredibly manipulative, he knew, but desperate times called for desperate measures.


	55. Chapter 55

Just as he had hoped, she was there, waiting for him. No one had bothered him on the streets, and they walked in relative solitude to the hotel. The clerk at the desk disapproved as they entered and picked up their room keys, but Gibson knew it was none of his business and there wasn't anything he could do other than turn them away, which he hadn't done.

"What if you don't leave?" she asked, her fear having risen to terror now that she was in the room. Guilt chipped away at his resolve.

"You're scared about this, aren't you?" He embraced her, as he felt he should, and she calmed slightly. He pulled her to the bed and assured her that he wouldn't force her to do anything, that they would just sit there and talk, and so they did, both too wired to sleep, for different reasons.

They had been there, sitting quietly, for so long, he was starting to think he should just give up and send her home. Monica could be disappointed with him all she wanted for going into Ramona's mind in the first place, but she had to admit he was using his power for good by not forcing himself onto her, as he might if he wasn't aware of how truly frightened she was. "I want you to feel safe with me," he said, meaning it with his whole heart. "I would never hurt you," he added, knowing full well that if he slept with her, it would hurt her that much more when he left.

As he was slightly bored holding her, not really conversing for they had too little in common, trying to show he cared, his mind began to wander and he became aware that trouble was on its way, and it was moving fast. Someone had tipped them off that he was there with her. They weren't happy; in fact, they seemed bent on punishing them. Brutally. He jumped up from the bed, startling her, and looked around the room. There was no safe place for her to hide.

"What's wrong?"

"That gang is coming. Here. For us. You need to get out of here. Now." He ran to the window and was relieved to find that it opened with ease. They could hear the boys yelling and stomping out in the hall, a few already at the door, throwing their bodies at it to break it open. "Go. Run home as fast as you can." She was about to ask him why he wasn't coming, so he sharply whispered again for her to run. If he took off with her, they would immediately see the open window and there was no way either one of them could outrun a dozen healthy, able-bodied boys.

He shut the window quick and had little time to move away from it before the door burst open. They were on him like wild dogs, pummeling him and kicking him. One who seemed slightly saner than the others, stopped them briefly to ask where Ramona was.

"She broke up with me. She came here to break up with me. She didn't want to sleep with me." The boy looked him in the eye, his mind struggling to decide if he was telling the truth or not.

"Go find her!" he sneared, and half the gang started off to her house.

"No! She's good. I'm the one who was pushing her to do things that she knew were wrong. I made her sin!" It was too late – they were already on the way to her home – and the beating had started again.

Luckily for him, Ramona had quickly changed her direction soon after fleeing. He was special, she remembered, and his parents were protecting him from terrible people. The gang probably wasn't who was after him, but she knew they were just as dangerous, if not more. Adrenaline carried her quickly to his home.

The pounding at their door woke John and Monica quickly and they hurried to the door.

"Sam, they have him! They are hurting him!" cried Ramona, tears streaming down her face.

"Who has him?" asked John.

"Those boys, the gang… they are at the hotel, on the other block… they are going to kill him."

"Shit." John ran back to the bedroom and grabbed his gun, leaving Monica and Ramona behind.

It didn't take much to find them. He heard the yelling from the street and burst into the front door, ignoring the flustered night clerk.

Gibson was completely unaware of John's presence. He'd fainted about the time he both heard and felt one of his ribs break, only to wake up to learn what it felt like to be hit with brass knuckles. He slid in and out of consciousness after that.

John walked into the room and calmly raised his gun toward the horde. "You boys need to step away from him right now."

A few of them were quick to raise their hands and step away, but the rest needed to hear the click of his gun as he cocked it, aiming right for the leader. "You walk out of this room right now before things get real messy. I've killed more men than I can count, so it doesn't matter to me if I add you to the list." He stepped away from the door, giving them a clear path out, which they thankfully took. He kept his gun trained on the ringleader, and followed behind them, watching from the doorway until they cleared out.

Gibson was in poor shape. He'd seen plenty of people beaten to a bloody pulp before, but it was worse when you knew the person. He took a towel from the bathroom and started cleaning him up, trying to assess the damage. There were gonna be broken bones for sure, probably some lost teeth, and it looked like someone had tried to stab him, but hadn't been able to get close enough. The knife had only gone in about an inch and off to the side. It was bleeding pretty heavily, but it wasn't life threatening.

He carried him back to the apartment, where Ramona and Monica fell upon him. He was conscious again, but just barely. "We gotta get him to a hospital, Mon," he said, accidentally saying her name, but he realized Ramona hadn't understood a word since he was speaking in English.

"I can't leave V," she responded, mindful of the need to exclude Ramona from the conversation. "Can you get home safely?" she asked Ramona in Spanish.

"No," Gibson managed to say, his jaw barely able to move and thick blood in his mouth. "They'll kill her."

Ramona looked at Monica expectantly, waiting for the translation. "You'll have to stay here," she said. "I'll walk you back in the morning and talk to your parents."

Monica had kept guard during the night, her pistol ready, as Vera continued to sleep peacefully and Ramona alternated between tears and cat naps through the night. The next morning, they walked to her parents' house. "This is what is known as the walk of shame," explained Monica. "Though usually you don't have another person with you about to save your hide."

"We didn't do anything."

"I'm glad to hear that. But the intent was there." She stopped for a second and put her hand to her head. "I'm sorry. I really shouldn't lecture you. I certainly have no reason to stand on a soap box. I had more than my share of youthful indiscretions."

Ramona's parents were frantic and angry, as could be expected. Monica did her best to defend her, avoiding the subject of why it was she hadn't been at home during the night, but explaining that she had saved her son's life and how she was forever grateful. She left them, knowing that Ramona would most certainly be dragged to church to confess her sins, as she had been so many times herself.

"Three cracked ribs, one that's more than cracked. They went in last night and popped it back into place. Broken nose, two teeth gone, hairline fracture in his jaw. Small stab wound that required a few stitches. Bruising everywhere, some broken skin. Lots of internal bruising. Doctor's say he's going to be pissing blood for a while. So, I sure hope he thinks it was worth it," said John to Monica. Gibson was awake, but chose not to participate in the conversation. It hurt too much to talk anyway.

But he started paying attention when she began to talk about Ramona.

"Don't let them take her to the church," he mumbled through a mostly closed mouth.

"That's between her and her parents," said Monica.

"No, he's right."

She looked at them, but Gibson's face could reveal nothing from behind the massive swelling and bruising and John's face only looked at her with caution and something that looked like sympathy.

"What do you mean?"

John dropped his voice down to a whisper. "When we were there yesterday, he realized there was a priest doing some sort of mumbo-jumbo on everyone. Apparently they've been trying to pull all the bad stuff out of everyone and put it into some lost causes, kids who were already problems."

"Is this what he was getting at yesterday when he was asking Ramona all those questions? That's really absurd. You realize that, don't you? A priest wouldn't practice witchcraft. It goes against the teachings of the Church."

"Priests do a lot of things they aren't supposed to."

As she took that in, she looked at her daughter, who was being remarkably calm, her attention being drawn in a million different ways. The noises and activity scared her, as did the battered form of Gibson, whom she couldn't even recognize. She clung tightly to her mother, her little eyes darting around constantly.

"Yes," said Gibson.

"Yes what?" asked John.

"That was for me. I was thinking about how I've felt in church, wondering if I was affected too. It makes sense, as much as I can't believe it. I go in there and I feel like I'm being purged of everything. It's more calming than meditation. I go in there and it feels like the world has stopped spinning, and everything inside me is quelled. I didn't want to question it, for it felt so right. It still does."

He explained what little they knew. "So you were going to tell me about this when?" she asked him.

"When it became a big deal. And it is now. We need to get him checked out of here, and we need to stock up on morphine to get him through the next few days. Though, honestly, it wouldn't hurt for him to suffer a little more than need be in atonement for such a stupid act."

"Ramona said they didn't do anything."

"Leaving the apartment in the middle of the night without telling anyone still constitutes as a stupid act. The kind of act that nearly gets you killed."

"You think it's time to leave, don't you?"

"I think they may still come after him."

"Ramona," said Gibson. "They'll go after her too."

"Then maybe I should pay a visit to the priest. He has to know that he's playing a dangerous game." He left Monica to settle the paperwork as discretely as possible and pay the bill.

The church was quiet. He hadn't been in there but the day before for Mass. There weren't a lot of people around for him to approach, other than a few congregants in the pews. An elderly priest in a black frock walked past and he did his best to describe the priest he was looking for.

"Ah yes, Padre Alberto, he is at study."

"Could I see him? It's important."

"He does not like to be disturbed at study. Perhaps I could help you?"

"The lives of two people are at stake here, and I think he needs to be aware of that. He's the only one who can save them."

"Surely it is not so dire as that."

"It is. Can you please tell him I need to speak with him?"

The priest nodded and directed John to sit. For over half an hour he sat their, anxious and growing angry. Whatever mojo was going on there was definitely not affecting him for the better. Finally, the priest he wanted to see arrived. He seemed smaller than he remembered, and his face showed great fatigue and worry. Had John not know what was going on, he might have felt sorry for the man.

"I need to talk to you about that gang of street thugs you created. They nearly killed my son last night," he said, not entirely at ease with referring to Gibson as his son, even after all these years.

"I'm sorry, I do not understand. I am a priest. I minister to those young men. I offer them counsel. That is all."

Had there not been parishioners in the pews, John would have taken the opportunity to slam the priest against the nearest wall to show that he wasn't fucking around. "I think you know what I mean. I know what you're doing here. I know about the magic crap you're doing down below."

"Sir, again, I do not understand. I am sorry that your son has been hurt, but there is nothing I can do. If you will please excuse me now, there is work to which I must attend."

"My son is lying in a hospital bed right now," he said, his voice raising more than he could control, "with broken bones and a stab wound, while that gang is still out on the streets hoping to kill him the next time they see him. You know what's going on, and you know what you need to do to stop it."

The priest looked at him with tired eyes and let his shoulders drop in resignation. "Let us not bother those at prayer. Come with me."

He led him deeper into the church, intending to take him to his study, but as they walked, they could hear a commotion further down the hall.

"Stay here," directed the priest, holding his hand up to stop John from following. But he had only taken a few more steps when they were both confronted by a young man with a crazed look in his eye. There were cries of horror, wailing of disbelief, echoing from behind him.

"Thank you, Padre, for the power," said the man, his voice thick with anger and spite. He held up a knife, looking at it adoringly, and kissed its blade, which was wet with blood. John instinctively pulled his gun.

"What have you done, my son?"

"Only what I had to do. And I will do it again –"

"Stop right there," shouted John. "Put the knife down."

The man halted, though he kept the knife ready in his hand. "You shoot me, you shoot an innocent man." John's hardened face was not moved. "You think I was always like this? I wasn't. He made me. He told me I could redeem myself for my sins. But all he did was make me more sinful. I have killed. I have blood on my hands. But you, you have killed so many more," he said, and lunged for the priest.

John fired.

The priest dropped to his knees beside the fallen man. "No, my son, my son, you did well. You have helped so many," he cried as he struggled to apply pressure to the chest wound that was spilling blood too fast.

The young man looked at him, and hoarsely whispered, "You will never be forgiven." With his last ounce of strength, he reached up and slipped the blade into the priest stomach, twisting it upward, aiming successfully for his heart.

It was only when the police arrived that John realized how much danger he had put himself in. He had tried unsuccessfully to save both men – the third had already bled to death before John was taken to him – and sat in the blood soaked corridor as nuns and priests and various other members of the clergy swarmed around him. No one spoke to him until the police arrived.

They questioned him on the spot and he provided them with all the false documentation and information he had. The gun was taken from him, dropped into a plastic bag.

"We will have to take you in, Mr. James Peterson. Carrying a weapon without cause is a serious offense."

The old priest who had spoken to John originally, interrupted. "No, no, gentlemen. You misunderstand. Senor Peterson is a hero. That gun belonged to the young man. Senor Peterson took it from him when he attempted to shoot my brother priest. Were it not for him, many more innocent lives might have been ended. I am sure when you examine it, you will find the young man's fingerprints all over."

"We will still need to talk to him."

"Of course, of course. I have no doubt that Senor Peterson will be able to help. But for now, please, gentlemen, let us move this to my office. If you will excuse us, Senor Peterson," he said, leaving no room for the officers to dissent. They followed meekly, hats in their hands, nodding to John as they left.

Outside the church, a crowd had gathered. He saw the girl Ramona, standing there with her mother, and approached her. Gibson would not get to say goodbye, he realized, and he felt sorry for the both of them. He took her aside and explained, as best he could, that they had to leave immediately, and that Gibson (Sam) was upset that he could not say goodbye. He told her that he had been beaten badly, but that he would survive, and that he feared for her life too. He spoke to her mother as well, telling her that the gang had targeted his son and consequently her daughter, and he urged them to take extra precautions until they felt it was safe.

Monica had already brought Gibson back to the apartment. She saw the blood splatter on John's clothes and knew instantly that someone had been shot.

"Are you ok?" she asked with concern. "Are we ok?"

"We have to move on," he answered with resignation.

Gibson was settled into the truck with care, Vera was buckled into her car seat, and Sadie was stowed in a nest of blankets in the back. John kissed his wife, rubbing his thumb softly over her cheekbone a few times as he looked at her. "I'm sorry we can't stay here. I know you liked it here."

"No, it's false happiness. I don't need spells and magic to make me happy with where I live. I only need you."


	56. Chapter 56

For fourteen months they traveled, renting apartments and houses for short stays and camping when the weather allowed. John's involvement in the shooting only seemed to have followed James Peterson, a man who no longer existed. Gibson sensed nothing. Moving constantly was just their way of life now.

Just a week before their fourth anniversary, Gibson became insistent that they move. They rarely asked why and he rarely offered an explanation. This time, he had them visit three towns before finally making a decision on a specific apartment.

"Why this one?" asked Monica after they'd confirmed the apartment was available.

He smiled slyly and grabbed his bag, heading toward the front door.

The day before their anniversary, at dinner, he finally spoke. "There's a restaurant across the street."

"Are you saying you are tired of my cooking?" asked John.

"No, of course not. I love beans and tortilla night. Your culinary expertise always leaves me wanting more."

"Just because your cecina was perfect last night does not mean you need to rub it in."

"Yeah it does. But anyway, I thought maybe you'd like to go out tomorrow night. Just the two of you." He'd been planning this for over a year, ever since John had become so forlorn at the realization that he had never taken his wife out on a date and perhaps never would. The previous year, he'd still looked a little worse for wear and he knew they would not be keen on letting him stay alone with Vera. But a peaceful year had passed and everyone was more relaxed.

"And you would watch Vera?" asked Monica, uneasily.

"Well, yes. What do you think, V? You want to hang out with me tomorrow night, just the two of us?"

She studied him, trying to understand what he meant. The concept of not having one of her parents with her was foreign and inconceivable.

"I don't know. There are too many things that could go wrong," Monica said.

"You'll never find a better babysitter. I'm telepathic and I can handle a gun."

"There are some great things to put on your childcare resume," said John.

"The restaurant is right across the street. You can take turns to come over and check on us."

"She's always had one of us with her," said Monica, feeling some severe separation anxiety.

"She'll be fine. I've been with her her whole life too," he said, standing up to clear the table. "You should give it a try. Go for a walk. She'll be fine, you'll see."

"A walk? Now?" asked Monica.

"Yes. Now. Go."

John looked at Monica. Monica looked at Vera. Vera sat in her seat and looked at both her parents.

"You go walk?" 

Monica knelt in front of her daughter. "Yes, baby. We're going to go for a little walk. Is that ok? Will you be alright?" she asked in Spanish, for she almost always spoke to her daughter in the language to help ensure that she was bilingual.

Vera looked at her with a serious expression. "Si," she said simply and climbed down from her chair. "Voy a leer ahora." I go read now. She headed off to her toy bag, which was not in any shape ready to go if they had to run suddenly, and pulled out a tattered copy of _Go, Dog. Go!_, emphatically reciting the parts she remembered.

"I guess she'll be fine," said John, uneasy as well at the thought of leaving the two people they were supposed to protect alone.

"It's just practice. If you can't take it, then it's no big deal. It's just a thought," said Gibson.

"Five minutes," said Monica.

Vera turned to the dramatic conclusion in her book, threw her hands up in the air and shouted "Dog party!"

John laughed. "Adios, munchkin. We'll be back real quick, ok?" He waited for a response, but she only looked at him.

After the door closed, Vera looked up at Gibson. "They go walk?"

"Mmhm."

She went to the window and looked out. "Where they go?"

"Just outside. They'll be back."

She felt unsure, but Gibson smiled at her, and Sadie thumped her tail on the ground. They were two of her constants in life.

Her connection to Gibson was similar in ways to that of her parents. A normal brother would have been just that. But Gibson was not normal, though she didn't understand yet. But he always knew what she needed, and though she couldn't rationalize it at her age, part of her did understand, which was why when she could find no solace or comfort in her parents' arms, when they failed to discern what she needed, she would turn to him.

"Do you want to play cars?" he asked.

"Ok."


	57. Chapter 57

Outside, in the dusk, John and Monica walked. They were quiet for a while, holding each other's hand a little tighter than necessary.

"Does this feel strange to you too?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"You ready to head back?"

He looked at his watch. "It's only been one minute. Maybe we should at least give it five. We're not far at all. And I think if she was upset, we'd have heard the screaming by now."

They circled the block twice and returned home, where they found everything just as they'd left it, including an exuberant toddler who ran full speed towards John. He swooped her up and tossed her into the air, as he always did when he came home.

The following evening, Vera watched her parents as they broke out of their normal pattern. Usually one would keep her occupied while dinner was being cooked, but today they were both in the bathroom, telling her to go to Gibson. She chose not to listen and instead hovered, trying to figure out what exactly they were doing.

"I haven't gotten ready for a date in so long," said Monica to her husband as they stood in the tiny bathroom. "Hell, I haven't worn make-up in a such a long time either." She cringed to herself – the little ears standing so close picked up everything these days, and the little mouth connected to them had been parroting back the less than exemplary words from their own mouths for a year now. Luckily, the little toddler brain was already bored and decided to move on to other more exciting things.

John touched the white hairs at his temple. "I can't believe I'm almost 48. Fifty will be here before I know it. How can you stand to be married to such an old man?"

"I don't know why you always think of me as being so young. Thirty-nine is not and never has been young." She turned and faced him, brushing those same white hair, letting her fingers trace the wrinkles she'd watch set over the last fifteen years. "We're growing old together, John. Nothing could make me happier."

"I dunno. I wouldn't mind growing younger with you."

She laughed. "There have already been enough x-files in our lives. Let's not wish for more, no matter how enticing they may seem."

"I love you, you know that, right?" he asked.

"I know. You tell me every day and I appreciate that. I love you too, no matter what color your hair or how old and crotchety you get."

"Crotchety, me?"

She laughed and let her hair down.

"Leave it up. It reminds me of our wedding day. Four years, Mon. Can you believe that?"

She smiled as she put her hair back up in the clip, but he could see that it wasn't her normal smile. "Four years isn't very long at all."

He knew that she was thinking about colonization. Growing old together was just a silly daydream. "The next four years are going to be even better," he said, and he kissed her bare neck, up to her earlobe and then to her lips.

She granted him another sad smile. "I honestly couldn't have wished for more so far."

Half an hour later, they sat at a table, just the two of them, in the restaurant across the street.

"Who would have thought that a simple date could be so nerve wrecking?" said Monica, staring at the door.

"It'll be fine. Gibson's capable of taking care of her."

"Oh, I know that. But we don't know this place very well. We don't know what kind of people live here."

"Gibson does. If there's a problem, he'll let us know."

"You're so relaxed. I never thought I'd be the one who would be a mess about this."

"I'm not relaxed at all. Just putting up a front for you."

"Well, that's sweet. We could just throw in the towel and go back."

"No. Mon, six years and we've never gone out on a date. We deserve this."

"Fifteen years, since we met, at least, and we went out plenty of times."

"But they weren't dates."

"Well, some of them were supposed to be."

He narrowed his eyes at her and gave a suspicious smile. "Whad'ya mean?"

"I asked you out on… May 25, 1996, three months after your divorce was finalized. We went to the Neptune Room. But I soon realized you completely missed my intent. And I realized it was because you weren't ready."

"God, really? That's terrible. But you… you were so young then. And with all your support during the divorce… Wow. I mean, I know you liked me and all, but I didn't know it then. I did pay, though, right? I didn't stick you with the bill?"

"No, John. You were always the gentleman, even when you completely oblivious."

"How many other times was I blind to your advances?"

"More times than I can count. But it's ok. By the time I had my car accident," she said, referring to the incident which landed her physically in St. Mary's Hospital and mentally in Audrey Pauley's, "I was so used to it. But you started to catch on that night, so it was even easier to forgive."

"Still regret not kissing you that night."

"Don't worry. You've more than made up for it." She squeezed his hand. "I'm going to go check on them."

The rest of the evening, they ate, laughed and talked, punctuating their time with quick trips across the street. The bar around the corner seemed lively and with Gibson's blessing they went out dancing, not creeping back in until nearly one in the morning. It was so easy to get drunk on normalcy.

Vera lay curled up on the couch next to Gibson, who was watching TV. "She wouldn't sleep in her crib and she wouldn't sleep in the bed, and this was the only thing she was comfortable with."

They took their daughter and thanked him, Monica adding a kiss to his forehead for emphasis, and wandered off to their bedroom to continue their anniversary celebration.

"You know, Mon," he said to her as she unbuttoned her blouse, "I don't think I will ever understand why you love me the way you do."

She gave him her naughty smile, and he knew that she wasn't really interested in having such a sentimental discussion. "There are plenty of reasons, John," she said, letting him slip her shirt over her shoulders and down her arms.

"Such as?" he asked, kissing her neck as her hands wandered up his bare chest.

"Mmm… let's see… well, there's… um…" She was toying with him.

"My good looks?"

"Mmm…" she mumbled, pretending that she was too wrapped up in what he was doing with his lips to be able to speak. Her smile gave her away.

"My handsome physique?" She gently poked him in the paunch that had shown up at some point in the last few years, and he fought back his smile.

"My undying love for you?" He pressed himself into her.

"Mmm…" Her voice rose a little to show that it was a possible answer. She crooked her fingers into the band of his jeans and pulled him with her as she moved toward the bed.

"My prowess in the bedroom?" Her legs hit the edge of the mattress.

"Maybe your sense of humor," she said, breaking into contagious, hard-to-stifle laughter, and they both fell into the bed together.

It wasn't long before they were both near climax. Time was of the essence – it was late and with a child, lovemaking was rarely an hours-long event anymore. But God help him if he hadn't married a woman who never failed at keeping their sex life very much alive and exciting. She moved rhythmically on top of him, her full breasts slick with sweat, a soft whimper escaping from her lips from time to time. He kept his hands on her hips, his fingers clutching her tighter as he grew closer to orgasm, giving in as she pressed her body back into his, tucking her mouth into his neck to help quiet her cries as she came. They lay there in that blissful moment, neither one wanting to move yet, or even speak.

"I want out," came a little voice and they both turned their heads in the direction of the crib.

"Shit!" said John, rolling out from underneath Monica, who was too busy laughing hysterically.

"Mama," she said, with frustration, "Quiero salir. Ahora." I want out. Now.

Monica obliged, still laughing a little, while John was busy disposing of his condom and trying to find his boxer shorts. He'd never been comfortable with having his daughter see him without clothes, but Monica stood there in the nude, completely at ease, with Vera in her arms.

"Leche."

"¿Dónde están sus maneras?"

"Por favor."

Back in bed, Vera was soon latched on and she watched her father with wide blue eye, wondering why he was acting so strange.

"John?" asked Monica, curious as to why he was still sitting on the side of the bed with his back turned towards them.

"Don't you think she's getting a bit old for that?"

"For what, nursing?"

"Yeah."

"She's still a baby, John. She's not even three. And I don't particularly want to stop. I like having this connection to her. I'm not in any hurry for her to grow up."

"Me either. But she is, regardless. She's getting too big to share our room," he said, finally facing her.

"Is that what's bothering you? She's not going to remember what she saw. She doesn't even understand."

"But she will. Soon enough."

"Didn't you have this problem with Luke? When did you move him to his own room?"

"Mon, he had his own room from the beginning. And considering what our sex life was after he was born, the chances of him ever walking in on us were few and far between."

She was still scrutinizing him – as was his daughter – and he leaned against his pillow and closed his eyes with a sigh. "I just wish things could be different."

"Different how, John? You want your own room and a nonexistent sex life?" she said with bemusement, not anger.

"No…"

"I told you that you were getting crotchety in your old age."

He could only return a half smile. "I wish I could provide for you better. I wish we could live a better life."

"You miss it, don't you? Your old life."

"I miss having those resources. But honestly, I wasted them. I could have had you years before this all went south. No pun intended. But I wouldn't trade what I have now for that empty house and evenings spent alone. I'd give up the FBI and a decent salary a thousand times over for a beautiful woman by my side and in my bed. And for this little creature," he added, ticking her foot. "But it doesn't mean I don't wish things were better for us."

"For some reason, I think you would feel that way no matter how well off we were." She smiled kindly at him and he had to admit she was right. "All right, little one," she said, slipping back into Spanish as she shifted her attention to the child in her arms, "you're not eating any more and we all need to be asleep."

"I'm not sleepy," Vera said angrily, her brow furrowed, and she suckled again in defiance a few times.

"Grumpy, grumpy. Just like your father. And Mama's going to be grumpy tomorrow if you don't let her sleep now. One of us is getting up in four hours to go for a run." She unlatched her daughter and settled into the bed.

"I want to play."

"Talk to your father."

Vera looked at John, who smiled and then closed his eyes tight, feigning snores with exaggeration, peeking at her from time to time. For a while, she sat there watching him, finally giving in to a smile herself. "We can play snore!" Finally putting her head down on the pillow, she snorted and flapped her lips, giggling at the silliness of it, unaware that her mother was raising her eyebrows at her father to do a better job at quieting her. But in time, her eyelids drooped and the fake snoring became soft sleeping sounds.

"Thank you," mouthed Monica before giving in herself.

She awoke a little later than normal and dragged herself out of bed. John opened his heavy eyes. "Mon, stay in bed. You can skip your run for one day."

"No, I'm fine. I'll nap later." She kissed him and got dressed.

Running was something she'd started in the last year. She'd lost most of her baby weight the year in the jungle, but she'd definitely taken a hit as far as her physical health went. John hadn't liked it, of course, for it meant that she was operating outside the realm of safety, but she pointed out that he often took jobs that required him to be away and out of communication for several hours at a time. When she'd started, he convinced her to take Sadie, but the dog was old and within a month could no longer keep up, though Monica occasionally took her for a short, slow jog as a warm up.

Sadie, however, couldn't even be bothered to lift her head up this morning, preferring to watch her from the comfort of her blanket near the front door. Monica scratched her behind the ears and started out.

She needed this time away. Her daily meditations were now squeezed in whenever she could find a moment, but were becoming shorter and more rare by the day. Running had never been her thing, but in it she could at least find quiet and a connection to her own body. She liked the soft rhythm of her shoes hitting the ground, the feel of her heart pounding in her chest, the sweat building on her skin. She felt strong and healthy and sometimes so happy she would still be smiling at the end of the hour.

The town they were in was small and mainly filled with dirt roads. There were very few people out. It was a farming community, so those who worked the fields were already there and the rest of the town would not awaken for another hour or more. She stuck to the routes outside the stores and the houses that constituted their neighborhood.

There was a dirty blue van parked along one of the streets. It hadn't caught her attention the first time she passed it, for it looked like any generic delivery van, but the second time, she saw that the door was slid open and a few men were sitting and standing around, smoking cigarettes and looking like they had yet to call it a night. The air held a slight hint of heavy drugs. Cocaine, perhaps, or heroin was probably involved. She tried to recall the vile odor that was associated with free-basing, but it passed soon enough and her mind was back to her run. Still, she decided to avoid that street on her next go around.

Ten minutes later, as she started her final lap towards home, she noticed the van had moved. No one seemed to be near it though, and her skin prickled with unease. Before she could even scan the field, she heard them coming, but it was too late to do anything. A pillowcase went over her head, the base of it being pulled tight to choke her. Her FBI training kicked in immediately, though, and she quickly managed to disable them, hearing one of their bodies drop to the floor and the other guy cry out in pain from whatever she'd managed to kick or dislocate with her foot.

But there were more than two. No sooner had she freed herself than she felt the hard tip of a pistol pressed against her back. "You move, we kill you and then your family," came a cold voice. She put her hands up and began to scream to Gibson, whom she knew was still sleeping. It didn't matter, for the butt of the gun soon came crashing onto the back of her head, knocking her unconscious. She awoke, barely, as her body was tossed onto the cold metal floor of the van, which was littered with garbage and sticky with beer.

At first, Gibson thought it was Vera who had awoken him.

"No!" screamed the child in her loudest, most piercing voice. "I want Mama! Ma-ma!"

"She'll be home soon. You just need to be patient. Let's play. What do you want to play?" John asked the child in a tired but calm voice.

She continued to wail. "Yo… quiero… Mama," she cried.

Gibson covered his head with his pillow, but soon bolted upright.

_Run. Go now. Get Vera away from here. Someone's got me. It's bad. Just go. Norias._

Norias was the name of their meet-up point. Every time they moved, they picked a town within a day's walk. If the worst happened and they had to part ways, in ten days they were all to meet again at the largest church in the town. If the missing person failed to arrive, they would try again ten days after that. And if that failed, thirty days after the separation, they were to go to Leon de Los Aldama.

Gibson jumped out of bed and grabbed his bag and backpack, not even bothering to change out of the sweats he slept in. He ran into the living room, where the ruckus was still continuing. "We need to get out of here now," he said, his voice panicked.

John ran to the bedroom immediately, returning with three bags. He grabbed Vera's toy bag – Gibson had already gathered the befuddled toddler into his arms – and called to Sadie to follow them, tossing her into the back with all of their bags. Gibson handed him Vera, instead of the keys. "I'm driving," the young man said with authority.

"Where's Monica?" asked John.

Gibson started the truck and took off at a fast clip.

John's stomach lurched. "Where's Monica?" he asked again, fear invading his voice.

Gibson just shook his head.

"What happened?"

Gibson looked at John for a second, his lashes wet though he wasn't crying. "Someone took her. That's all I know," he choked out.

"We have to get her."

"We can't. She said to run. She's afraid they will come after us."

"I'm not leaving my wife behind."

Gibson continued to drive.

"Turn the truck around, Gibson. You can find her."

Gibson shook his head. "She said she would meet us at Norias in ten days." _If she could._

"Gibson," he started to say harshly.

"No! We can't. There are too many of them. She didn't know what was going on. You have to take care of Vera."

John quit arguing, held his confused daughter tightly, and cried.

In the van, Monica stayed as still as she could, trying to assess the situation, through the fog of a head injury. As soon as they realized she was still conscious, her hands had been tied behind her back with duct tape, and a strip was taped across her mouth. The pillowcase was loosely draped over her head. There had been five men before when she'd first seen them, and she could detect no more. They were all high on whatever they'd been snorting, smoking, and shooting all night.

Their minds were quite scrambled and they bounced from sentences about raping and killing her, to what the boss would say about their prize, and then to taunts towards one another. She felt sick with fear, for herself and for her family. Even though she knew she was probably too far away, she continued to scream at Gibson to run.

They drove for nearly an hour, she guessed. The roads were treacherous and her head throbbed from the hit she'd received, but she managed to suppress any sounds. She didn't want them to take too much notice of her. If she moved, they were liable to start trying to terrify her again with all sorts of sordid plans and she had no doubt that they had plenty of experience when it came to such crimes. And who knew how trigger happy they would be in their drug-fueled haze.

When they stopped, she was dragged out by the arms, landing hard on her knees, and then jerked back up again. All the blood rushed from her head and she felt faint and faltered, eliciting laughter from the men. They pulled her through a building and she tried to remember the turns they were taking. Long walk straight, turn right, go through a door, turn right, down a half flight of stairs, turn left. She heard the clink of a set of keys and another door opened, into which she was thrust. The door closed.

The stench was almost unbearable, and she had to fight back the desire to vomit. Her mouth was still sealed with duct tape. She stood for a few seconds, listening, and was pretty sure there were other people in the room with her, though no one spoke. Perhaps they were gagged as well. She leaned over, letting the pillowcase fall from her head, which unfortunately made the smell that much worse, and then stepped over her bound hands so that they were at least in front of her. She was then able to pull off the tape on her mouth, and from there, use her teeth to free her hands.

Her heart fell when she realized her wedding ring was gone. She hadn't been out for long, she'd thought, but apparently it was long enough. She wore no other jewelry when she ran, and even then she usually left her ring at home. But the morning after her anniversary, she had chosen to keep it with her. Her money belt, with 30,000 pesos, her share of the money, was still around her waist, and she unzipped it, relieved to feel the cash was still there. If they'd kidnapped her for money, she could perhaps pay her way to freedom.

"Is anyone else here?" she asked.

A few people shifted, but no one spoke.

"Where are we?" Still nothing. "Do you understand me?"

"Most of them don't," came a voice from the back left corner. "They are Huichols, I think."

"How many of us are there?" she asked, slowly moving in the direction of his voice.

"In here? I think five now. Myself, you, a girl, and two men. There is also the man who died two days ago. They won't take him out. They want us to understand what our fates are."

Monica closed her eyes. That explained part of the smell.

"We are fated to die here?"

"We are fated to be killed by them. For him, death came slowly. They cut off his legs and it took a full day before he finally died."

"Why would they do that?"

"His family used part of their land to grow food for themselves. They were only allowed to grow marijuana."

"And you? Why are you here?"

"We could not come up with the protection money they demanded. I sell food from a cart. I am not a rich man. They threatened to take my daughter, but she is only twelve. I begged mercy and they took me instead."

"What is your name?"

"Luis."

"How long have you been here?"

"Over a week. Two weeks maybe? I don't know. And I will die here, for my family will never be able to raise the 1200 pesos they demand."

"What will they do if they cannot pay?"

"Cut off the rest of my fingers. Then my hands, arms, I don't know."

Monica swallowed. She was glad he could not see her face. "The rest of your fingers?"

"They have taken two already. They send them to my family to remind them of the debt."

She closed her eyes, her nostrils flaring at the injustice and the insanity of the drug war. "Why would they take me? We only moved to Tanger a few days ago. We know no one. We haven't had any contact with anyone or received any threats."

"Perhaps they liked the look of you face," he said sadly. "There is a girl here, one of the Huichol. I don't know how old, maybe fifteen or sixteen, but I think they only took her because she's beautiful. Though now she is so sad there is hardly any beauty left in her. They have defiled her greatly. If they turn on the lights again, you will see." He was quiet for a moment. "She's never said a word. I don't even think she's made a noise. She has simply been sitting there for longer than I've been here, her legs crossed, her eyes closed. I think she is dead inside."

"She speaks no Spanish?"

"No. And she does not speak with the others either."

"Do you know where we are?"

"No. Somewhere in southeast Durango, I guess, but honestly I don't know."

Her head throbbed. She wasn't in the best shape to deal with anything right now. "Luis, are there blankets? Is there food or water?" She wore only shorts and a t-shirt and had not eaten since the night before.

"They might bring food later. They usually bring something once a day, which is the only way to keep track of the days. But I don't think it's every day and I think I've lost time too. As for blankets, there are a few to the left of the door."

She thanked him and headed back to the sliver of light that denoted the door. Her hands fell upon a course wool blanket and she took it with relief. In the silence, she could hear her fellow captives' breathing and slowly made her way to a place that seemed unoccupied, and in the opposite direction of the corpse that she hoped would be removed soon. Her foot tapped against something and put out her hands to try feel what it was, eventually making contact with a head of hair. She apologized and received only a sharp breath of air in response. Though she couldn't be sure, she imagined it was the girl he had spoken of, and she continued walking a few more feet until she found the wall. Within seconds of wrapping herself up in a blanket, she passed out.

She awoke when the lights came on. Two men in black ski masks entered and she watched silently as they wrapped the dead man in his blanket and hauled him out. The door closed and then Luis and the two Huichol men made for a bag that had been left behind.

"Food," said Luis, simply.

She sat back down on her blanket, eating a mealy apple and took in her surroundings. It was a large room, mostly bare, with tiled floors that hadn't been cleaned in a long time. There was very little that could be used as a weapon, and certainly nothing that would be useful against heavily armed men. There were buckets in the corner that were obviously being used as toilets. Luis saw her staring and assured her that no one would look.

She started to cry, though she knew she needed to be strong. As long as her captors did not see the tears, though, she reasoned it would be ok to give in.

Luis did not know what to do or say, and so he averted his eyes and pretended like she wasn't there. The Huichol men watched as they took tiny bites of the dry corn tortillas. They were thin and had obviously been there for a very long time. The Huichol girl, whom she sat near, did not move from her position, still sitting cross-legged with her eyes closed.

When Monica could cry no more, she finished her apple and turned her attention back to Luis. For now there wasn't much to do except talk to the only person in the room with whom she could communicate. At some point, she figured, her kidnappers would talk to her. They had to. And then she would have a chance at freedom.


	58. Chapter 58

A/N: I really thought I would have finished this chapter by now, but apparently you're just going to have to sit tight and wait for the resolution next Sunday.

I had to change Vera a little, after I watched a video of a friend's nearly three year old who was speaking far better than V. Not that she has a lot of lines in this installment...

* * *

At nightfall, Gibson finally stopped driving. He had no idea where they were, though some time with a map finally showed they were just south of San Felipe in the mountains. There seemed to be nothing around them, other than trees. Neither he nor John could eat, and Vera had cried almost nonstop the entire day, barely eating anything herself, still demanding her mother.

When John had finally managed to get her to sleep, which had more to do with her own exhaustion than his parenting skills, he joined Gibson, who sat outside the truck, tearing the bark off of a twig, angry and frustrated. "Are we really going to just do nothing?" John asked.

"There's nothing that can be done. If you try anything," Gibson said, knowing full well the thoughts that had been playing in John's head, "then you risk leaving Vera an orphan, and I don't think I'm the best person to take care of her."

"If something happens to us, you'll need to get her to Monica's father. That's the only family we know of. I've got no one, I don't know any of Monica's extended family."

"You can't go rescue her." He poked at the dirt with the stick, restlessly. "She's going to be ok."

"You know that for sure?"

"Kinda. Her vision of Vera, she was in that. She was there. So, she's going to get out of this alive."

"But she wasn't in my vision. I didn't know where she was. I'm not waiting five fucking years before I see her again. I'm not leaving her to fend for herself."

"No, you can't leave Vera to fend for herself. She's the one who needs you the most. Monica wanted us to protect Vera. She didn't call out for you to come save her."

John was silent. Gibson got up to make his bed in the cab of the truck. "You need to stop thinking about leaving. I'll leave first, if I have to, so you have to take care of her."

The truth was, more than anything, Gibson wanted to save her. He was the only one who stood a chance, but even he knew there were too many variables. He could read minds, and he had no doubt he could outsmart them, but that didn't mean he would be able to slip past any unknown electronic surveillance or even simpler booby traps. He hated just as much as John the feeling of being helpless. He had a job, he knew very well, which was to keep John focused on Vera, and he knew that to do it, he might have to leave.

Monica was already starting to lose track of time. Her head wasn't throbbing any longer, though her breasts were. She tried to guess how many feedings had been skipped now – three or four, most likely, meaning it was now sometime into her second, or maybe third, day.

She'd only seen her kidnappers the one time and had still been too disoriented to do anything other than watch and take it all in. If they came once a day, then she expected them to come soon. To kill time, and to not go insane thinking of her family, she spoke to Luis about his, avoiding all mention of her own. She had to be careful.

They slept more, except for the girl who continued to not move. At some point they came for her, two men in ski masks as before, each grabbing an arm, dragging her with them. She kept her eyes closed and her head held high. Monica bristled for her, but did not intervene. Not yet. She knew she risked her own life, as well as the girl's, and possibly her fellow captives.

When the girl was tossed back into the cell and the door slammed tight, it was the only time Monica saw her look alive. She blinked, disoriented, taking in all their faces, one by one, as if she were taking stock of them for the first time. She stood up, walked back to her blanket, crossed her legs, closed her eyes and was gone again.

Another bag of food was thrown in, and Monica decided that she would call it the third day. Still no one had communicated with her, and she was at a loss. She had called to the man at the door, asking why she was there, but the door slammed shut, no answer given.

As she slept that night, or that morning, or that afternoon, the door opened. A foot tapped her awake and she looked up to find a gun pointed straight at her head. "You will come with us." They took her firmly by the arm, the man with the gun walking behind her, the barrel of the gun jamming into her back whenever she slowed or he sped up. No one said anything else to her. If one could use the word professional in the situation, their attitude toward their job was very much so.

They marched her into an office, and she came face to face with the man she knew was in charge. He had money, and he meant to show it in his appearance. His suit was shiny, his desk polished mahogany, his tie clip solid gold.

Monica looked him dead in the eye.

"Welcome," he said. He handed her a bottle of water, which she accepted with thanks. She would not offend him by turning down an offer like that. "I'm afraid," he continued, "that there has been some confusion."

"Yes, I agree," responded Monica, but the man tutted her, and she knew she needed to let him speak, if she was going to get anywhere.

"My men were perhaps not thinking clearly when they took you. We do not do much business in Tanger. But they were in town for a party, and I believe they might have gotten it into their heads to bring me back a present. But I am afraid they did not do their research and have consequently made an error."

Monica nodded but sipped her water rather than respond.

"Ordinarily, I would tell them to return you, no harm done," he said, and she knew that he was lying, that if such mistakes were made, they were probably corrected in a much different way. "But it seems that something very peculiar has happened." He paused and smiled, but did not continue. It was her cue to speak.

"What happened?"

"I sent them to make inquiries to your family to see if we could arrange for your safe return. But would you believe it, when they went to ask, it seemed your family had disappeared. Apparently, they fled the same morning as the unfortunate incident with my men." He sipped from his own glass, and watched her carefully. She gave no response, but inside she was bursting with relief.

"I find this odd. I would think that a man would not just leave without his wife, especially if he has two children with her, especially if one is quite young. Honest men, good, _law-abiding_ men, do not just leave their wives behind when they move. Which leads me to believe that there is perhaps more to your family than we realize."

She continued to be unmoved, keeping her eyes fixed on him.

"Is there something we should know, Mrs. Brewer. That is your name, is it not? Alicia Brewer?"

She nodded. He began to laugh.

"Somehow I doubt that. But no worries. We will figure it out soon enough." He leaned back in his chair, his eyes wandering over her body in a most unpleasant way. "Drink more water," he said, with a touch of tenderness in his voice that might have been sincere. "You look feverish."

She complied, for she did feel warm, though she did not admit to him to having a fever, but she imagined her cheeks must be somewhat pink.

"Your child, a daughter, I believe, is still nursing?" Monica narrowed her eyes at him, eliciting another laugh. "You think I know nothing about women or infants? I have a wife. I have three children myself. I have heard that it is not easy to wean a child, that it can be painful. My wife suffered a great deal. Perhaps if we can get this little matter cleared up quickly – the matter of who you are and what needs to be done about you – perhaps we can return you to your child sooner."

She waited for him to nod that she could speak. "My family has done nothing wrong. We have not interfered with you or your business. We are merely raising our children in the country of my heart. I don't know where my family has fled, but I do know my husband is merely trying to protect the children."

He tutted at her again. "Now, now. Such falsehoods sound nice but they will not get you home any quicker. I assume if your husband left, you must have a cell phone number or an email address?"

She shook her head. "We cannot afford such luxuries as cell phones and computers. We are not rich. We live a very simple life."

"Perhaps a meeting point somewhere. If you tell us where, we could communicate to him that you are here, that you are well, and that you need to get back to him and to your children."

"This has never happened to us before. We never discussed such a contingency plan. Perhaps he means to return later."

"Let us hope so. I tell you what, we will keep doing what we can to reunite you, and if you think of anything important, you should let us know. How does that sound?"

She did not respond.

"I will take that as a yes. Now, these gentlemen will see you out. If there's anything we can do for you, do not be afraid to ask."

"I did have one question." She actually had several questions and requests, but knew that she had to take such things slow. "I seem to have lost my wedding ring at some point during the morning of my… arrival. I was wandering if your men might know where it is?"

"I assure you, they do not. You probably lost it while you were running."

"It means a great deal to me. It was passed down to me from my Abuelita to my mother, and I would one day like to pass it down to my own daughter. As a family man, as a husband, you surely understand the significance of such things."

"Of course, of course. I will have them check the van. But Mrs. Brewer, you must not hold out hope for such things. Here," he said, opening a small refrigerator behind his desk, "have another bottle of water. I will see what I can do about getting you some kind of medication for the fever and the discomfort."

She thanked him and was led out a little more civilly than before.

Back in the room, she could not ignore the fact that she did indeed have a fever. Such sudden weaning had left her breasts engorged, and with no privacy she could not express her milk. The build-up was excruciating and though she did not know it, a pale pink discoloration had started to spread unevenly over her swollen breasts. She would do what she could and ask the kidnappers when they came next if she could talk to their boss again, whom she hoped would move her, and perhaps the girl, to another room. For now, there was nothing to be done other than try to sleep through the worst of it.

At the camp, Gibson was doing the best he could to keep John together. The inaction was killing him. He needed to be out there, hunting down the men who took his wife, searching for clues, beating the shit out of them when he found them. But instead, there was a little girl with a dirty, tear-streaked face and tangled hair who needed to eat and be consoled and kept busy to keep her from crying any more than was necessary. Whenever he found his mind constructing a plan to find Monica, Gibson would give him a look and walk away.

"Just twenty-four hours," pleaded John on the fifth night. "I can get up there, figure out what's going on and come back. No storming the castle, just figuring out where it is. You two can stay tucked away here for that long."

"In five days, we're going to Norias. If she's not there, then we'll talk," he said. "John, you've got to give her some credit. You've got to believe she can take care of herself. I believe it." He did. But there wasn't any part of him that didn't also want to rush to her rescue.

Monica wasn't a victim. She had been in more life-threatening situations than she could count. This was just another. But in some ways it was more than that. In the FBI, what had she to worry about besides herself? What had she to go home to besides her empty apartment and maybe a phone call to a friend who couldn't talk for long – the kids needed to be picked up, her husband was calling her, dinner was about to go on the table. Now she was one of them, albeit in vastly different circumstances, but there was a child waiting for her to come home, and a husband wondering where she was, and a son of sorts whom she had sworn to protect with her life. Right now, it wasn't just about surviving and it wasn't about righting a wrong. It was about getting home to them.

There were two ways out – the peaceful way by making some sort of deal with the man in charge, or she could figure out how to get her hands on a weapon and escape in a far risky manner. But the mastitis was killing her and making it very hard to concentrate on her task.

She knew he was trying to break her. He knew exactly what she was suffering, and his promises of medication were for naught. The last time they'd delivered food, they hadn't even left any dirty well water in a used Coke bottle, as they usually did.

Her head throbbed and she felt slightly nauseous, as though she had the flu. She spent most of her time just lying on her blanket, barely able to move. Even breathing was becoming painful, for it meant her chest moved up and down. She cried a lot, unable to stop herself, partially from the pain and the fever, but mainly for the loss of her daughter and husband. She hadn't slept alone in a very long time. There were no arms wrapped around her waist, no baby pressing her feet into her stomach as she stretched out horizontally.

Her dreams were fractured, intense and sometimes downright terrifying. But at some point, they changed. She felt a calm and a cohesion to them. The dream she would remember most vividly was the one she had before she awoke. She sat in the lotus position in the jungle, though it was not exactly like the one they had lived in in the Yucatan. She watched as a jaguar lept from the trees. It walked right up to her, staring her straight in the eye. She nudged two cubs towards Monica, and they began to paw and suckle at her breasts. She felt all the pain and heat and sickness drain from her body.

When she awoke, her fever had broken and she felt perfectly fine. She opened her eyes to find the Huichol girl sitting nearby, in a trance-like state. "Thank you," she said, understanding, or at least thinking she understood, that the girl was responsible. The girl took in a quick, audible breath of air and then grew silent again.

"You are feeling better?" asked Luis.

"Yes, much."

"She is a good healer," he said. "Though she could not save the other man."

"Your hand?"

"Yes, she keeps it from getting too bad, I think."

She talked to Luis for a while, nibbling on one of the crackers they'd brought in the last bag of food, about his health and his spirits, about those he'd had to leave behind. "What do you think about trying to escape?" she finally asked.

"I think it would be dangerous and would probably result in our deaths."

"But you said here there was certain death. It's our fate, right?"

"Yes…"

"So perhaps we should work out a plan to get out of here. I only wish we could communicate with the Huichol men. They seem strong and able bodied. We should try. Maybe they'll catch on."

She went on to explain to Luis that she had been trained as a policewoman of sorts, that she knew self-defense, that she could probably disable one of them, if he could get the other. She started working with him on how to outmaneuver someone with a gun, though he was awkward having to defend himself physically against a woman. The other men watched attentively, even though they did not get up to join in. She explained to Luis that even if they couldn't put the plan into motion, it was necessary to stay moving while in captivity. "That way, if an opportunity presents itself, you're strong enough to take it. And if one does open up, I want you to take it, even if it means leaving all of us behind. You can send help."

The boss had her brought to his office again, roughly a day after her fever had broken. She was unbelievably thirsty, and her stomach growled as she sat before him. He could only smile. She pretended like there was nothing wrong.

"How are you doing, Mrs. Brewer? I see that you are feeling better. The men told me you'd been pretty sick, so I made sure that you were able to get some rest before bringing you back here to see me."

"I am much better now, thank you."

"Have you had time to think about what we spoke of last?"

"Not so much time. It was difficult to think of much while I was ill. I was hoping you'd brought me here because you had news about my family."

"I think you know that they have vanished without a trace. We are still trying to figure out who you are." He stopped to grab an apple from his fridge, which he began to eat using a knife. Her stomach growled again. "You know, the Internet is a marvelous invention. My connection here is not the greatest, but it is interesting the things you learn."

"I wouldn't know. I don't remember the last time I went online."

He laughed and offered her a slice of apple, which she accepted with a polite smile.

"Oh, don't worry. We have not found anything useful yet. But perhaps a few queries here and there might turn something up. We will let you know." He took another slice and then offered the rest to her, motioning for her to eat, setting the knife on the desk, well within her reach if she chose to go for it. "It is only a matter of time. I hope that you are not refusing to help us because you think you can escape. Though I must admit, the damage you did to Paco and Chango was impressive. But they know now to be careful with you."

He rose from his chair and came to sit on his desk in front of her, staring her down for a long time. She wanted to return the stare to show her strength, but felt it would be best to look away and let him have the power. But when his hand touched her hair, she jerked her whole body away from him, her jaw set, her nostrils flaring, and her eyes very angry.

The boss smiled. "You look like a lioness. Very strong. Very beautiful. Don't worry, I have no intention of hurting you. But sometimes a man cannot resist himself."

"I have a husband."

"Yes, so you have said. But he seems to have abandoned you."

"Fleeing with our children to protect them is not abandoning me."

"If that is what you need to tell yourself… But I do not know why a man with such a beautiful wife would not want to protect her as well."

"He knows that I can take care of myself." She didn't take her eyes off of him, but she knew exactly where that knife was and she knew that if he made another move on her, she would make sure to use the knife, regardless of the bodyguards who stood behind her.

"Yes, I'm sure you can." He stood and nodded. "Alright, my pretty lioness, you may return to your den now."

She screamed at him in her head, but smiled outwardly and thanked him. Angering him, showing her displeasure with him, would only harm her chances. Being a model prisoner would be her only shot at escape.

She wondered how long it had been. There were no newspapers anywhere, no letter or documents with dates, nothing that she could see in his office that hinted at the time. It was nighttime, which was all she could tell from his window, which only confused her more, because her body felt like it was morning.

Four men escorted her back, which felt like overkill. She wasn't sure she could even take two, especially after at least a week with little food. But when they reached the room, she understood why. Two men with guns stood before her, while the other two took the Huichol girl, who did not resist, but also never seemed to come out of her trance. They left and turned off the lights.

When they returned, they threw her violently to the ground and took one of the men, who immediately began to protest and struggle, which only earned him a pistol whipping. He came back in obvious pain, moaning and sometimes crying. She ran to him as soon as the door was closed again, not able to see or offer any words of comfort.

He was young, perhaps twenty, at most. Since she'd arrived, he sat there with the other Huichol man, talking sometimes, but mainly just waiting. She'd noticed that both men still could lay claim to all their various appendages and seemed no worse for wear, other than hungry. But now, as he lay shaking in her arms, she could feel blood, warm and wet, streaming from his head. When she reached up to find its source, she gasped to find that his ear was missing. He screamed as her finger came in contact with the wound. There was nothing to do except tear off a strip of fabric from his shirt and press it against his head, shushing him and humming to him as if he were an infant.

A hand fell on her shoulder and gently pushed her aside. She knew it was the girl, and she knew that soon the young man would be on the road to recovery.

As the night dragged on, she did what she could to stay fit, a few push-ups, some sit-ups, and a long stretching session, all interspersed with talking to Luis to keep him from descending into thoughts that he would die there and to remind him what would be gained if they could pull off a successful escape.

Shortly after they'd fallen asleep, which she now guessed to be mid-morning, the door had opened again and both Luis and the other Huichol man were taken. It was too dark for her to give him a look of encouragement, but she hoped he remembered that if a chance for escape was offered, he should take it. Her hunger was extreme by now – it had been at least a day and a half since they'd last offered up some pithy edibles – and with Luis gone and adrenaline and fear pumping through her veins, she could hardly fall back asleep. Her legs were soon tucked under her, her hands resting on her knees, and her mind calm and then empty. After a while, thoughts began to gnaw at her and she pushed them aside until she realized they were not her own thoughts. They were too vague or her mind wasn't strong enough to fully take them in, but she knew that the girl's thoughts were seeping into her own. The realization, however, was enough to break her meditation and she lost it.

Upon returning to a conscious state, she could hear someone whimpering. Luis had been returned and she hadn't even noticed.

"They beat me," he said, wincing. "Electrical cord. Lashing. Kicking. Fists. And they took another finger." He made some pain-filled calls for mercy from above. She sat with him, as she had the other man, until again the girl came over. She did not push her away, but merely sat beside her. When Monica tried to explain to Luis that the girl was there to help, a hand fell on her mouth.

The girl did not speak or even move and there was nothing Monica could do, sitting there in the darkness, unable to speak. She took Luis' good hand, holding it tightly, and tried to meditate, to see if she could in any way pass on some of her strength to him. In time, she saw it, the jaguar again. But no sooner had she recognized it than she lost the connection and slowly came back to her physical body. Luis was calmer, his breathing no longer labored. She pulled a blanket over him and made her way back to her own, leaving the girl to do what she needed to do. Monica was thoroughly wiped out.

Again, not long after she'd fallen asleep, she was awoken. This time it was by two hands roughly grabbing her by the arms, jerking her to her feet. Their fingers dug into her flesh. She feared that it was her turn to learn what kind of torture was in store for her. She could hear screaming as she was taken down the hall, and she knew it was the other Huichol man.

"Ah, there is my lioness," said the boss, coming to meet them in the hall. "There is something I would like for you to see." He took her gently by the arm from the other captors and they walked towards the sound of the screaming. He opened the door to the room and Monica looked away immediately, closing her eyes at the horror that she had just seen.

The man lay bloodied and beaten on a table, his arms and legs splayed out and tied down by ropes. The torturers stopped when the boss entered, though the Huichol man continued to scream.

"I am not so eager to hurt you," the boss explained to Monica. "As I said before, you are a beautiful woman, and as I am a lover of beauty, I cannot just destroy something like you. But this man, he is nothing to me. I know where he comes from, I know how poor he and his family are, I know how useless he is to the world. He will die and aside from his village, no one will ever know. His own family will forget about him in time.

"You, however, I feel might be a little more important than he is. You are holding out on me, and the more you hold out, the more I think your value is. What are you trying to hide?" His eyes hardened and she felt ill looking at them. "How much longer are you willing to keep that secret?"

She shut her eyes again.

"Chepe, please continue." He took Monica's face in his hand, his fingers tight around her jaw. "I'd advise you to open your eyes and watch, or I will have to have them cut off your eyelids." She knew he meant it.

Her face contorted with disgust as she watched them continue on with the torture. "What do you want from me?" she asked after a few seconds.

"I want you to tell me who you are."

"I have told you that." He nodded at Chepe and the Huichol man was suddenly without one of his fingers.

"God dammit. What am I supposed to do? Lie to you to save him?"

"You are lying to me now and you can see how good that is working out for him. Chepe, don't you have anything a bit hotter to use?"

Chepe turned on a little gas flame and began to heat up the blade of his knife.

"Now, my brave lioness, I would like for you to think again about what you can offer me, and if it's acceptable, I will stop this right now, and you can both return to the room. He is not so far gone yet and will probably survive. If you have nothing to tell me, then Chepe will have to continue."

The blade of the knife glowed red.

"My name is Alicia Brewer," she said, barely able to keep the panic from seeping in to her voice. "My husband's name is Michael. Our son is named Joel – he is my husband's son from his first marriage. Our daughter, our baby, is named Clare. She's only two. We have lived in Mexico for over fifteen years, since our marriage. I was raised here. I met my husband in Florida on a vacation. What more do you want me to tell you? How can I possibly prove any of that?"

The boss pushed her angrily into the wall and walked over to Chepe, taking the knife from him and plunging it into the man's hand. "That is _not_ good enough!" He strode back to her. "I want to know what you are hiding!"

She wasn't supposed to cry. She knew that in a kidnapping or hostage situation, she was supposed to remain dignified and calm, but this was too much for her. A few tears fell from the corners of her eyes. "I just want to go home to my family. Why do you insist that there must be more to me than that?"

He was wavering – for a second, she could see the doubt in his eyes. When it passed, she tried to bring the situation back to something she could control. "Why did you take him? Did his family owe you money?"

"It is of no concern to you."

"If I could pay his debt, would you stop this?"

"Pay his debt?" asked the boss.

"I have money."

"You have money? You did not think to tell us of this before?"

She pulled the money belt from her waist, unclasping it and handing it over to him. "There are 30,000 pesos in there. Is that enough to stop this and let him go?"

He pulled out a bill and held it up. "Why on earth would a woman out on an early morning jog have 30,000 pesos with her?"

"Will you let him go?"

"Take her back to the room."

The Huichol man never returned. She hoped she had been able to buy his freedom, but she knew he would never be the same.

She sat in the room longer, growing faint with hunger. The last delivery of food had contained rotten meat and hard-as-rock tortillas, along with a single bottle of water. Monica only took a few sips before giving most of the rest to the two men. What was left, she set before the girl.

In the afternoon of the ninth day, Gibson and John broke camp. "Are we going to get Mama?" asked Vera as she watched.

"I hope so, sweetie."

"I don't like it here. I want Mama."

"Trust me, I feel the same."

His answers were not concrete enough for her, and she turned to Gibson, who already knew what she wanted to hear.

"V, we're going to go look for your Mama, ok? She's still lost. So tomorrow, when we get to Norias, you have to help us look for her."

"I can find her."

"I know you can." He stopped folding up the tent rods and knelt down on the ground, opening his arms to her, and she fell into them, eager for a comforting hug in the midst of all the confusion and change.

They drove into the night, not reaching Norias until after one in the morning. Vera was passed out in her car seat, and John was too nervous to sleep. Gibson slept in the passenger seat, only to be nudged awake by John the moment the sun started to rise. They wearily made their way to the church, taking refuge in the building as soon as the doors were opened.

Monica was not there, but John still clung to hope. They made their way into the last pew, sitting on the far right "I can't look," said John. Part of the plan was that if someone made it there too early or in between the first and second attempts at reuniting, a note was to be left stuck to the bottom of the last pew, as far to the right as possible.

Gibson reached underneath, but felt nothing. Eventually, in a bit of desperation, when he was sure no one would notice, he got on the floor and looked, but there was no message. He said nothing, but sat back down, and rested his hands on his arms against the back of the next pew.

Vera slept in the pew, her father's hand never breaking contact with her. The anxiety built. Vera awoke and demanded her mother and breakfast, as she had done every single morning, though she no longer screamed for Monica. They took her outside, where Sadie sat waiting, not wanting to bother the other parishioners at prayer, never straying far from the main doors. Gibson reached out to every mind he could find, as far as he could, but met only more disappointment. Lunchtime came and they both guiltily ate until their bellies were full of non-camp food. When Vera began to wilt, they returned to the church, and she napped in John's arms, her head resting against his chest. Again she awoke, with queries of her mother's whereabouts on her lips. They walked around the square. Dusk began to fall. Night enveloped them. The church doors were closed. Vera fell asleep for the night. John and Gibson sat in silence, neither one ready to give up. But at midnight, Gibson knew that it was over, at least for this attempt and he started walking to the truck. John followed some minutes later. He closed the door to the truck and began to cry so hard Vera awoke and joined in.

"We'll find her," said Gibson as he drove out of town and back towards the mountains.


	59. Chapter 59

How many days had it been? Eight? Maybe nine? She wasn't entirely sure, but she knew it was getting very close to the time she was supposed to be in Norias. There were no signs that she would be able to escape. They never approached her except in pairs and with guns. They'd worn her down with hunger. There were only two men left, and they were both badly beaten. And the girl seemed to do nothing but meditate and heal them as best as she could. They were a sorry lot. She would not be leaving by force, she knew that. It would have to be through the boss. She could only hope that the doubt she saw in his eyes could be turned into something more lasting, but the money only refreshed his suspicions.

The lights came on again when another delivery of food arrived. The bag was full of apples and sweet buns, a veritable feast. She ate cautiously, and did her best to hide away something, in case there would be no food later. The lights also revealed the terrible conditions that the Huichol man and Luis were in. Though their pain had subsided, and their injuries free from infection, there was no doubt that they had sustained very serious wounds. She brought them food and held the water bottles to their lips.

She meditated a lot. Each time she came close to the girl's thoughts, she lost them again, though she was able to pick up images here and there, always of the jaguar. She did not know as much about Huichol belief systems as she felt she ought to, given her background. But she knew enough about general animism and shamanism to understand the basics, and she was familiar with the animal guides who were most important. The deer was a symbol of hunting prosperity. The snake was especially important to shamans, most notably the rattlesnake whose rattle was thought to come from the spirit world. It was the animal that chose those who would be shamans. Monica wondered if the girl had already been visited by them or if she was still in the process of being chosen, which usually came in the form of great illness or suffering. There was no doubt the girl was undergoing a great test now, but her skill suggested she had been practicing her art for longer.

The jaguar, however, was one of the most revered creatures, for it inhabited all three major planes. It walked the earth upon which the people tread. It climbed the trees and was therefore able to access the spirit world above. And it was known to swim, giving it a connection to the underworld. If this girl was communing with or being protected by the jaguar, she was very powerful indeed. That she could call upon it to help her in her healing was an even greater sign. Monica felt very safe with her there, but wasn't sure how she could use it to escape. Any attempts to talk to the girl were in vain, for she never responded, and any attempts to communicate mentally ended as soon as Monica realized she had made a connection to her.

Luis was able to sit up again, and she could sometimes convince him to get up and walk a few steps. The Huichol man was in less pain, and would sometimes join them. He was obviously lonely now without his companion and when Monica asked him his name, pointing to herself and Luis, giving their own names, he finally responded. "Presciliano," he said, and attempted to smile. Still, she knew she was on her own.

She was starting to lose hope of ever seeing her husband and child again, though she did maintain a soft hope that Gibson could hear her, so she included meditation time each day to try to reach out to him, to let him know she was still alive but so far unable to escape. She urged him to keep John focused on Vera, even though she knew they were her best chance of help from the outside. But if he could find her telepathically, he could maybe reach out to Shannon or even track down Jimmy and Yves.

It finally struck her, as she sat in the room, thinking it was nearly day ten, not realizing it was already day twelve, that she could possibly ask the boss to contact them. She did not know Jimmy and Yves financial standings, nor did she actually know how to contact them, but it might be worth a shot. Perhaps a query to the Lone Gunmen website would garner some attention. As for Shannon, she wasn't quite sure she was desperate enough to reach out to someone in the Justice Department, even through the unconnected email address she'd left them. But if need be, she would. Would Shannon consider her worthy enough of her help was another question entirely.

She resolved to plead her case again to the boss, and if that failed, to admit to her outside sources of aid. The door opened towards the end of what she thought to be the ninth day, and though she was almost asleep, the sight of the food bag woke her up. But there would be no food for her. "You, up!" yelled a masked man, pointing his submachine gun at her, really the only way they ever communicated with her. She jumped to her feet and was briskly dragged down the corridor to the office, pushed in with great force that almost made her fall. They slammed the door and did not follow, which was not a good sign. She was alone with him.

He looked her up and down, his eyes cold and revealing nothing, before nodding to the chair, indicating that she sit. As soon as she did, he walked to the door and locked it. Mexican culture was not kind to women in any situation, not in the professional offices of Mexico City and certainly not in the locked room of a drug lord's private office. She braced herself and took a quick survey of the room and what it had to offer. She was not going to get raped and she was not going to be coerced into any sexual favors. The knife from the other day was not in sight, but she suspected that it had to be close, perhaps in one of the top desk drawers. There were various knickknacks on the desk and displayed on shelves, but none looked heavy enough to do much damage. There was a framed picture of a Diego Rivera painting – if broken, the shards of glass could be useful, as long as she was careful to not cut herself. And she suspected that he was armed, and probably had a handgun of some sort, if not more, also tucked away in his desk. She could work with that.

"How are you doing today… Ms. Reyes? Or do you prefer Mrs. Doggett? Or should I simply call you Monica?"

She wasn't prepared for that, but managed to keep her composure. "It's Mrs. Brewer, and I am doing well."

"Do not play games with me any longer," he said, slamming his hand down on his desk. "I have seen your picture, I know that you were FBI, I have read about how you kidnapped a boy and fled to Mexico to do God knows what to him with your former partner, John Doggett, if I remember correctly. I have also read that you robbed and killed your own mother, leaving her bound and gagged, tossed on the side of the street like garbage when you had no more use for her. I can't believe I was so kind to you before. I thought there were people out there who would be happy to know you were safe and alive and would ensure to keep it that way. But now that I know what a sick, twisted, fucking whore you really are, I feel nothing for you any longer."

"I did not kidnap that boy," she said. He tried to interrupt her, to tell her to stop talking, but she ignored him and yelled over his words. "I am protecting that boy from the very people who killed my mother, the people who will gladly kill me or my husband or even my own child to get to him. If anyone is a sick, twisted fuck, it's you!" Her words were biting and he obviously did not approve, yelling back at her to sit down.

"There is someone coming tomorrow to discuss the matter of what to do with you. There are plenty of bounties on your head, it seems, though none of them are advertised. It looks like I should get a sweet deal out of you yet."

"They're not advertised because they're not legal. The bounties on my head are offered by less than honorable organizations."

"In case you have not realized, Ms. Reyes, I am running a less than honorable, and somewhat illegal, organization. With whom else would I want to do business?"

He walked up to her, slipping his hand into her hair and pulling her head back to look at him, and she knew it was coming. "I'm not going to be nice to you any longer."

"Then I won't have to be nice either."

"Oh, there are still plenty of reasons to be nice to me," he said as he touched her face and neck. "Chepe… Paco… Chango… and plenty more of my men that you have not had the pleasure of meeting. And Paco, by the way, is less than pleased with what you did to his cojones."

"If you think I won't do the same to you and then some, you are very wrong," she sneered back at him.

"I think you want to survive. I think you probably want to see your lover and child again, but we both know that it is too late for that now."

He pulled her up from the chair, but she did not go easily, clawing at him and taking an underhanded shot towards his nose. But she was weak and slow, despite the adrenaline, and he was able to out maneuver her, dropping hold of her hair and taking her by the wrists instead. She went for the balls, but he deflected her again. This was not the first time he'd tried to rape someone, but she was determined that it would be one of his failures at least. He put his foot behind her and gave her a push, sending her hard to the ground and she scrambled away. But there was nowhere to go and he soon had her pinned beneath him.

She closed her eyes and in a second was reaching out to the girl for help. She had to return to her body quickly though, for he had taken her calm state as defeat, his knees bearing down on her spread thighs, one hand still holding her wrists, while the other worked at undoing his button and fly.

No, she was not going to be raped. Her eyes flashed at him and he laughed. With every last ounce of strength she had, she contorted her body away from him, oblivious to his fighting back as well. She freed a hand and began to push against his chest, both feeling for a gun and trying to maneuver him off of her. They struggled this way for another minute, near the door, near nothing of use. Her hand hit against his dangling belt and she reached down a little further, almost sad that he had not managed to free his most sensitive parts yet, but grabbed him as hard as she could through his jeans and squeeze and twisted with all her might, making him scream and rip her hand away.

His anger was helping him gain leverage again, but no sooner had he managed to get the upper hand than a terrifying roar rang through the office, making them both jump from shock. It was the cry of a jaguar. He threw himself off of her and looked around with terror. Finding it had not mysteriously appeared from nowhere in the room, he ran to the window to see if it was outside, but could see nothing. He grabbed his cell phone from his desk drawer, pressing a button.

"Mari, are you inside? Are the children with you? Don't go outside. I think there's a jaguar on the property. I'll send some of the men out to hunt it down."

As soon as he'd gone to the window, Monica had taken hold of the doorknob and dragged herself up, opening the door to find the two guards pointing their guns at her. When the boss had hung up, he instructed them to take her back and then gather up more to inspect the grounds and not return until they had a dead jaguar on their hands.

"We're not finished, Senora Reyes," he said, taking a gun out of his drawer and loading it into his holster. He was finished with her for the night, though, and wanted to return to his wife and children.

Monica sat before the Huichol girl, the Huichol shamaness, and begged her to listen, to understand if she could. "We have to get out of her. If there is anything that you can do, if there are any forces you can call upon to free us, please, we must get out of here." She wasn't sure how far away she was from Norias, or how she could get there in her worn out, battered condition, but she would get back to John, Vera and Gibson even if she had to walk half of Mexico. The girl opened her eyes, her face stoic as ever, and touched Monica on the face. Monica closed her own eyes and felt peace and strength and an underlying sense of protection. She understood now that the girl was not only meditating for herself or to care for the wounds of those with whom she was imprisoned. She'd been working as hard as she could to prove to the spirits that she was worthy, that she should be allowed to save them.

There was no food left, save an apple that Luis had sat on her blanket. "I'm sorry," he apologized, "They gave us almost nothing." She smiled and told him not to worry, that she still had half a sweet bun tucked away, and that she hoped it would be her last meal there anyway.

"Did they hurt you?" he asked cautiously, well away of the swelling that was starting to show on her face and wrists.

"Not as much as he wanted to, don't worry. I need to rest though. I want to escape tomorrow. I need to get home to my family. We all do." She reached out and touched his face, just as the girl had done. "We're all going to survive this."

She slept fitfully, with dreams of pain and rape and jaguars running straight for her, only to swipe down whatever faceless man was causing her pain. It may not have been entirely restful, but it was sleep. In the morning, she dragged herself up, taking stock of the bruises that colored her body, but ultimately relieved that she'd escaped the worst. After a breakfast of dirty water, she sat near the girl and meditated, careful not to tread into her mind, willing her own body to heal, not wanting to distract the shamaness from her more important task.

They came for both of them, a group of men. The girl opened her eyes and smiled at Monica, for the first time ever. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen today.

Monica was returned to the boss' office, the men with the guns being instructed to leave again, but this time, she was not alone with him.

Another man sat leaning back in one of the chairs, his legs crossed, his demeanor falsely casual. She recognized his face, but it took a few seconds before it hit her. "You're a Federale." He had stood beside her father, six years earlier, accusing her of killing her own mother.

"And you are a murderer."

"Six years and you still believe that to be true? Have you done no investigation?"

"Ms. Reyes," said the boss, "This is not a court of law. I do not care whether you think you are innocent or not. I do care that this gentleman, a fine example of our law enforcement's true priorities, not only believes you are quite guilty, but is willing to help me find out who it is that might have the biggest bounty on your head. Please take a seat. And say hello to Senor Javierez. Senor Javierez, this is the infamous Senora Reyes."

"If we're going to bandy about my name so much, I'd prefer you use the proper one. Senora Reyes de Doggett."

Javierez laughed. "I am a man of the law, Senora Reyes, and I can guarantee you we have never seen a legal document proclaiming such."

"We were married under the eyes of God, in a Catholic Church, if that is law enough for you."

"Reyes, Doggett, it is no concern of mine. What I do find interesting is the fact that you kidnapped a boy, from the United States, causing great alarm from your government and your FBI, yet when we found evidence that you had been to your family's home, robbing your mother and killing her, then we received urgent, secret requests to suppress the story, to pretend like nothing had happened. We were thanked for our efforts and told that they would handle it from then on.

"Now if there's one thing a Mexican man does not like to hear is the US Government telling him to leave an investigation in his homeland to them. What do they know of Mexico? What do they know of a Mexicana? What do they know of a defeños?" he asked, using the slang inhabitants of Mexico City used to identify themselves. "So I reoffered them my services, outside of the Federal Police, and have been doing what I can to aid them. You see, I have a mother who raised me to do right, and whom I would never harm, no matter how dire the situation. What you did is unforgiveable, a true crime under the eyes of God. Why you feel pardoned enough to marry in a Church is beyond me."

"Did they tell you anything about the boy?" asked Monica, angrily. "Did they tell you anything about why we ran? Why we had to protect him?"

"He is a boy. Though I suppose now he must be a man. They told me he was a former chess champion. That he was an innocent. I can only imagine the reasons why someone would kidnap a teenage boy, and none of those reasons are acceptable."

"They did not mention that his life was in danger? Though even if they did, they certainly would not admit that they are the very ones who threaten his life. And they would never tell you that they were the ones who killed my mother, staging it to look like I had any part in it. I loved her. She was my life." Tears burned her eyes, even now, six years after the fact.

"That is a beautiful performance, but it does not move me. I came only to verify that it is truly you and to work out a deal with my friend here, one that can benefit us both. There are, of course, stipulations to the deals. So much for you, so much for John Doggett, and unimaginable riches for the boy. And he is the one I want. Six years of searching; I'm not going to just give up as soon as you cross my path. Oh no, I prefer to find a way to make you talk. I know my friend has tried and that you have been very resistant. So I told him to not be so gentle with you any longer. I do not intend to be gentle."

She knew he was talking more about pain and torture than mere rape. He was hungry for blood, he desired to see her hurt and cry for taking six years of his life. _Now_, she tried to scream at the girl, closing her eyes for a second. _Now._


	60. Chapter 60

The boss was looking at her hard when she opened her eyes again. "Why do you do that?" he asked, with a touch of fear in his voice.

She did not answer. Instead, she waited.

She was vaguely aware that Javierez and the boss continued to talk, but her head was light and she felt so tired, so dependent on the shamaness finding the strength and power to pull off whatever it was she had in mind.

A jaguar's roar echoed from the hallway outside.

"You!" cried the boss. "You did that yesterday!"

"I made a jaguar scream? I am no magician."

He hurried to the door and locked it. Outside they could hear the voice of a man scream in the final throws of death, his body hitting the ground near the office with a thud. The jaguar cried again.

"What the hell is going on?" asked Javierez, pulling his gun as soon as the boss took his in hand.

"There was a jaguar on the grounds last night, but my men could not find any trace of him, not even a footprint. But we all heard it. How it got into the building, I'll never know."

The three of them sat there in silence, listening. _Get down_, she heard a voice in her head say, and she immediately slumped out of her chair and pressed herself against the desk.

It was quick and it was vicious. She had never heard the sounds of a man's flesh being ripped open, the sound of bones being crushed, of spines breaking, or skulls popping. She hoped to never again hear those sounds. She had felt the brush of warm animal fur across her arms and legs, but when she finally had the courage to look, the jaguar had vanished, and she was alone in a blood splattered room with two very dead men. Her first instinct was to run and free the others, but she wasn't sure yet if the shamaness had finished her task. She looked at the men and felt only moderate sorrow. The boss, whoever he was, was a father and did seem to care enough about his wife as to make her the first person he would contact in a dangerous situation. Javierez… she knew nothing about him, but he might too have had a lover or children, and she knew he had a mother who would wonder where her son was.

While she waited, she went about searching the room. She guessed the office was probably one of the most important rooms in the building, and if her wedding ring was anywhere to be found, this was a good place to start searching for it. She opened the drawers to his desk, finding printouts of her picture, John's picture, a police report, all of which she kept. She retrieving a couple weapons, a hefty wad of cash, a laptop, but found nothing of her ring. Rummaging through the man's blood-soaked pockets yielded a set of car keys and her heart pounded, realizing that she would have transportation back to Norias. There was more money in his wallet.

Behind a closed door was not a closet, but instead, a large safe. Oh, how she wished she knew more about cracking safes than any layman. But when she looked at it, she could only laugh. The man who was so quick to have his victims' fingers cut off owned a biometric safe. She walked over to his very dead body, and thought perhaps it would be in bad taste to defile him this way, but decided a small measure of symbolic retribution was in order. She felt chilled at her audacious thinking, but removed the knife from his desk drawer, and cringing only slightly, separated it from his hand. She rinsed it with water from his fridge, dried it off, and a second later the safe popped open, happily accepting his fingerprint.

There was more cash than she had laid eyes on in a long, long time. There were shelves of valuables – gold jewelry galore, pearls, diamond rings, cell phones, passports, watches, keys to who knew how many vehicles. And there, in a little brass bowl, mixed in with other rings, there was her own wedding ring. She took it in her hands and wept. She wept for her family, for her mother, for her husband, and their child. She wept with relief that this would all soon be over.

She retrieved her money belt as well, and stuffed it with as much cash as it would hold. She would bring the others back here and try to get them to take something as well. There was no telling who it all belonged to or if it could ever be reunited with its owners, assuming they were even still alive.

Monica closed her eyes again and called out, _Is it safe?_ A moment later, the reply: _Safe._

She ventured out into the hall, stepping over but not looking at the mangled body of the man who had been killed just outside the office. Other rooms along the way held similar grisly scenes. One room, the room where she guessed the girl had been taken each time, contained a mattress that now dripped with blood, and even Monica had to put her hand to her mouth to keep herself from gagging. When she returned to the room where Luis and Presciliano were still locked up, she realized she would need a key to enter it, and had to begin the task of returning to the bodies of the men, searching their pockets, until she found a set of keys that looked like it could work.

She was half afraid to open the door, not sure what she would find, but there they were, oblivious as to what had been going on in the other reaches of the building. Luis smiled at her, seeing that she was free and not surrounded by their captors, but recoiled when he realized she was covered in blood.

"It's ok. It's not mine. The girl, she did something, summoned a jaguar, I think. The men are all dead, as far as I can tell. We are free. There is money upstairs, more than you can imagine, and keys to trucks. Luis, you will never have to worry about money again. You can take this and go somewhere far, far away, and keep your wife and your children safe forever."

She led them upstairs, walking slowly for Luis was still in great pain and Presciliano seemed to lose his balance often. They all did their best to avert their eyes at the horrors before them. She led them to the safe and left them to take what they felt was right, as their consciences allowed, and handed them bottled waters and apples from the mini-fridge for their journey.

The girl had so far not shown up, but Monica knew she must be near. She called out to her a few times, begging her to come and take something back to her people, begging her to allow them to transport her back, but she did not respond. Something told Monica that she was perhaps treading back to her home on four paws, slinking through the hills and forests that surrounded the compound. Before they left, she stopped in a bathroom, rinsing her clothes out as best she could, using a towel to wash the drying blood from her skin. She looked like she'd been through hell and back, but it would have to do.

She and the men headed outside, into the sunshine. Presciliano refused to take a truck, and she guessed that he did not know how to drive. She tried to get him to come with her, hoping that he would understand that he could simply point to where he needed to go and she would get him there, but instead, he just nodded and started off on unsteady steps towards the north.

"Do you have any idea where we are?" she asked Luis, as they fumbled with various keys, trying to match them to the correct vehicles.

"No, though I suspect we are further north than where we were taken. I have heard it said that he had his headquarters up in Durango, so perhaps that is where we are now. His reach is vast, though. But I would suggest heading south, as I am going to try. Found one!" he shouted with pure exaltation as the lights to a brick red Ford flashed.

They continued pushing buttons and finally found another fairly new Ford. Obviously, they had a thing for such trucks. It was black and ridiculously large bodied. She felt a little overwhelmed by such a possession, despite having been married for so many years to a man who could write a book or two on the subject. But it was time to head to Norias, and she wished Luis well on his journey, urging him again to take his money and his family as far away from the violence and the drug cartels as possible.

She started up the car and her heart fell when the time and date came up on the display. It was fourteen days since her anniversary, thirteen days since she'd been taken. She'd missed them and would have another seven days to wait. But with the money she'd acquired, it would give her time at least to eat and rest and clean herself up, not that it was much consolation when all she wanted was to be in their arms again.

In the woods, Gibson was trying to get Vera to play a game of letters. Monica had started teaching her to read a few words during his lessons when she wanted to play school too, and it seemed only right that he continue with her education while Monica was away. He had her draw in the dirt with sticks, writing out their names, making sure she knew the letters and the sounds, then erasing them with his foot when they needed to move to the next word. She had a ways to go, of course, being less than three and quick to confuse her letters or turn them around, but she was smart and could be coerced into these games, especially when Gibson could produce a piece of candy for a word well written.

John was grieving. He did not know what to do. Two weeks of feeling powerless was a suffocating feeling for him. He could not be happy, when his wife was probably suffering. He could not take pleasure in his daughter, who with each passing day only seemed to look more and more like Monica than himself, her little brow furrowing just as Monica's did, her laugh just as free and explosive as her mother's, her very existence a reminder of the woman he loved so fiercely and so passionately, in ways he never thought he would love again. And he was constantly haunted by his vision, of Vera as a young girl, the both of them trying so hard to find Monica. Four and a half more years without her was enough to make him dissolve into tears several times a day.

He hated feeling guilty about his child, for he loved her as though she were the most valuable little being in the world, but were she not there, he could have gone looking for Monica, and he fully believed he would have found her by now. He felt guilt for feeling that and guilt towards Monica for loving their child so much that he would never dream of leaving her.

Gibson was well aware that John was also less than pleased with him. He knew he wanted him to go off and do something, if he himself was not allowed to do it. But Gibson refused to broach the subject and instead took care of Vera since John was largely incapable, which only filled him with more guilt. What kind of father loves his child so much, but cannot care for her, and wishes sometimes that she did not exists so that he could save his wife? What kind of man was he?

He was not naturally given to such introspection, but in the inaction of his life, in the sitting and waiting for day twenty to approach, there was little else he could do than sit and mull.

John heard his daughter's giggles stop, and Gibson's voice grow silent. He looked over towards them to make sure they were ok, and saw Gibson looking down the rough trail on which they had driven in. Gibson then looked him dead in the eye and gave a half-smile. "John, I think we need to go back to Norias now."

He leapt from his seat. "Is she ok? Did you find her?"

"No, but I just have a feeling that it's time to go back."

"A premonition."

"Yes."

John had no thought in his head that the young man could possibly be wrong. Instead, he started breaking camp as fast as he could, throwing things willy-nilly into the truck, tossing his daughter up into the air with jubilation, which she joyfully accepted after so many days with a morose father.

He drove like a man possessed and could only heed Gibson's requests that he drive more reasonably for a few minutes at a time. They were six hours away; every moment he slowed down just meant it would be longer until he saw her again, till he could be reassured that she was ok.

"I don't know what it means," Gibson tried to warn him. "I don't know if she'll be there, or if there's some other reason we're supposed to go back. But I think it's her. I think she's trying to get back to us."

And she was, desperately so. The truck was conspicuous, and she felt panic rising in her chest from not having Gibson there to forewarn her of any police blockades, or worse. It would only be a matter of time before Mari went looking for her husband, before she found the gruesome sight awaiting her, before she called someone.

She stopped for gas, well aware that her appearance and clothes would give anyone pause and elicit more attention than she wanted. But there was no other option, rather than abandoning the truck and continuing on foot. She desperately wanted a pair of clean jeans and a simple t-shirt and inquired from the young attendant if there was anywhere to buy such items. He looked at her with confusion. "Are you… hurt?" he asked.

Was she hurt? Of course she was, but she was still operating on auto-pilot, unable to truly assess her situation. "I need to get home. I need new clothes. I have money."

He picked up his cell phone and dialed.

"No, no calls. Just tell me if there's a store somewhere where I can buy clothes."

"Mama," he said into the phone, and Monica relaxed a bit. "There's a woman here who needs help, and I don't know what to do for her." He stepped away and whispered quietly into the phone, causing Monica to start to walk out the door. Too much risk. She needed to get home, bloody clothes or not. He ran after her.

"My mother, she is coming in. She can help."

Monica stood outside, trying hard to take in her surroundings. There seemed to be nothing around her. And yet the harder she looked, the more she realized she was wrong. The gas station had a small shack behind it, from which a woman emerged, dragging with her a small chubby child, who shirt did not cover its belly. Beyond the immediate stretch of land, there were a few roads, she could see houses and shops a mile or so out. Where had they appeared from? She'd been so focused on finding a gas station, she hadn't seen anything else.

The woman stopped a few feet away from her and looked her and the truck over. She said something, a name perhaps, but Monica did not understand and didn't respond. The woman shook her head. "No hablo anglaise."

"I'm Mexican," Monica finally said. "I just need clothes."

The woman repeated herself. It was a name. The boss' name, possibly. Monica shook her head. "You need to leave. We can't help you. It's too dangerous. You need to leave before they find you."

"No, they won't come. They're dead. They're all dead. I need to get home, to my family."

The woman shook her head from lack of understanding. "You have money?"

"Yes. Can you help?"

The woman looked out across the landscape, fearful of being tricked into something. She shrugged off her worn sweater. "50 pesos. You never tell anyone where you got it."

Monica nodded and pulled out ten times the asking price. She slid the sweater over her arms and let it swallow her. In the truck, just before heading out, she cautiously slid open the mirror on the sunshade and saw her face, with it's cuts and purplish bruises. Her lip was split. Her hair was matted and caked with blood, some of it hers from weeks ago. Things started to rush back to her, and she could feel herself fighting against him, feel his fists hitting her, though she hadn't been able to recall fully how and when. Worst, she could not stop the images of what the girl had done. She put her head on the steering wheel and sobbed uncontrollably, her mind no longer able to function beyond tears.

There was a knock at the window, which she wasn't aware of for a long time. When she finally heard it and turned her head, the boy stood there and motioned that she roll down the window. He handed her a Coke. "You need to leave now, my mother says. It's not safe. For us. Please."

She nodded and took the drink from him, starting the engine again, pulling back onto the road that she hoped would take her to Norias. She needed to pull herself together for a little while longer, to push herself a few more hours. She was going home. She had survived the worst and couldn't allow for moments of weakness, not yet.

After stopping from time to time to ask for directions, she was there. The drive had taken about five hours, with the rough and unknown roads. But it was still days early. She drove around the small town, which was only a collection of dirt roads, very like Tanger, from which she'd been kidnapped, until she spotted the small spire of the town's church. Sure, it was too early, and in theory, she was supposed to hunker down somewhere out of sight, but there would be a note, she hoped, a connection to the man she loved.

She wrapped the sweater around her body even tighter, grateful that it was long enough to cover the clothes underneath, and took the shaky steps up to the front doors, picturing in her mind John, Vera, and Gibson doing the same just days earlier.

The church was empty, except for an old woman lighting a candle before the Virgin. Monica sat on the pew in the last row, as far to the right as she could, and ran her hands along the old, worn wood. She was afraid that if she looked for a message, there would be nothing, and she took some minutes to just allow herself to pretend with no doubt in her heart, that they had made it here, that they were safe, and that everything was going as planned. In six more days, they would be together.

Finally, with trembling hands she reached underneath. Her voice caught in her throat when her hand brushed against paper.

She sat there on the pew, her legs crossed, reading them over and over again, the little notes. "We're ok," wrote John, in his loose hand. "Hope you are too. We all miss you. We'll be back on day 20. I love you." She didn't even care that he had no way with words. The fact that she held in her hands a slip of paper that he too had held, a slip of paper that promised they would be together again in less than a week, that was all that mattered.

The one that made her bawl, though, was the one written by Vera. She knew Gibson was behind it. It said, in red crayon, "I love you Mama." Monica traced the roughly written letters with her fingers and cried. Her baby was writing now. And most importantly, they were all ok.

John parked the truck near the church, his face full of excitement. The child in the backseat sang to herself a song composed entirely of the words "Mama's here, Mama's here," her little sandaled feet kicking in time. When her father took her from the car seat, she pointed to the church, which she remembered well. "Mama's there."

"Yeah…" came Gibson's voice, breaking as he forced it to work. "She's there. She's here! God, she's here!" They ran, up the stairs, through the doors, and there she was, jumping up from the pew, running to them. Arms flew out and she was safe, finally safe, held tight by John, sweet, plump baby arms wrapped around her neck, Gibson's head pressed against her arm. She sobbed, John cried, Gibson pretended his own eyes weren't wet. When words could finally be spoken again, John took her head in his hands, and she smiled at him, forgetting what she looked like, until his face looked sorrowful and his fingers brushed against the cuts and bruises.

"My God, Mon, what did they do to you?"

She pulled his hand away from her face, and looked him straight in the eye. "I'm ok," she said before her tears started up again.

"I'll kill them. I will track them down and kill them."

"They're all…" she started to say they were dead, but the child in her arms made her not want to broach the subject. "Later, John. I'm really ok, though."

In less than two hours they had sold the old truck, after switching the license plates with the new truck, and had checked into a pretty decent hotel in Rio Grande. Monica had been quiet, letting Vera speak nonstop with tales of camping and games played with Gibson and random thoughts that only come to the minds of near three year olds. She had requested only a place to stay that had a bathtub, if one could be found. Whenever John tried to talk to her, to urge her to eat more or ask her if she wanted to change into her clothes, she shook her head and nodded towards their daughter.

The hotel room was large, with double beds and a full-size bath. As much as she hated having to rip herself away from them already, she needed to shower, to get the blood and dirt and grime off of her, and she closed the door, nearly giving into sobs again, especially after hearing the tantrum it set off in Vera. Down the drain everything went, and she scrubbed at her skin until it was red and a few of her wounds opened up again.

Gibson knew full well what had happened, and she'd been very clear in her thoughts that he needed to keep his mouth closed, that she would talk to John later. But she was failing again in the shower, stuck in a loop of bad memories, the water soothing. Gibson looked at John and gave a nod towards the bathroom.

John opened the door cautiously and she turned to him immediately, reaching out for him, oblivious to the running water. He held her, growing steadily drenched, and kissed her forehead. "Mon, you ready to get out?" he asked, not knowing what else to say or do.

She shook her head. "No… I should… I wanted to take a bath… to soak." She scrunched up her brow. "I ache all over. Will you… stay with me?" He sat on the edge and plugged the tub, turning off the overhead water.

"Monica," he said, looking at her critically. He'd noticed the bruised wrists before, but the purple marks on her thighs, the fingerprint bruising on her shoulders and arms, made his heart drop. "What did they do to you? Did they…?" He didn't even want to say the words.

She quickly shook her head again. "No, I'm ok. He tried, but… I'm ok." She wasn't ready to talk about the shamaness, about the jaguar, about the murders. She pulled her legs up tight in her arms, painfully aware of how thin she must look, of all the other bruises and cuts, and she wanted it all to go away, to be who she was just two weeks earlier. Right now, just being in the same room with John, it was a start.

"Mama," Vera's voice called from the other side of the room. "I want to take a bath," she proclaimed in Spanish, and Monica found herself smiling and unable to remain away from her for longer. The child came in, bath toys in hand, and began to wrestle her way out of her sundress without any help from her father, further amazing her mother, before crawling in to join her. They sat there until the water grew too tepid to enjoy, Vera still speaking non-stop, curious at times as to the marks on her mother's body but mostly too happy to have her back.

In bed, the first thought in both their minds was nursing, but Monica had to explain to her that all the milk was gone. John looked over at her, knowing how much that must hurt her, how important it had been to her. When Vera had finally fallen asleep, Monica knew it was time. Not even twelve hours had passed, but Gibson already knew everything, and her husband was a wreck from worry, so she began.

Two hours later, sitting around the little table in the room, she finished. "We're done, Monica," said John. "We're done with Mexico, and we're done with living this kind of life. I'm emailing Shannon first thing tomorrow and demanding that she help us get out of the country. We're going someplace civilized and safe."

She wanted to protest, to point out that it would cost a fortune to relocate. But more than anything, she wanted to crawl into the bed, wrap her body about her child, and curl up against John.

"She needs to rest," said Gibson, speaking for her. "You need to give her time."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm not even thinking about what you need right now."

"John, you're always thinking about what I need. But Gibson's always sneaking into my mind and reading exactly what it is I need, even when I can't figure it out." She smiled at him, placing her hand over his in thanks. He was not the boy he'd been and as he'd aged, she'd started to pull away from him a bit, unsure of how to treat him at times, and often consumed with her daughter. But now, she looked at him, so quiet and concerned with her, though he could never really say it, and she pulled him over to her and held him, long and hard. "Thank you for taking care of them. Thank you for not letting him come after me and getting himself killed. Losing John would be thousands of times worse than what happened to me," she said, looking straight at John, who felt guilty again for even contemplating putting his life on the line for her when she was capable of saving herself. She released Gibson from the hug and he gave a self-conscious nod. "Tomorrow, tell me about the last two weeks, ok?"

"Mon, it's nothing. What you went through… we have no room to talk."

She managed to pull her lips up into a smile. "Tell me tomorrow about how bad John's cooking was. And anything funny V might have said. And if Sadie ever managed to catch any squirrels while you were hiding out. Tell me all that. I want to know every mundane detail about what I missed."


	61. Chapter 61

Sleep did not come easy and it did not last. Every time she opened her eyes, it seemed that John was already looking at her and it gave her great peace, though she wished he would sleep, for she needed him to be as strong as possible. When the room began to fill with soft morning light, he arose and started preparing for their departure, which included taking inventory of everything she'd brought back with her. She only allowed herself to be vaguely aware of what he was doing, for she wanted as little connection to the last two weeks as possible. Instead, she lay and watched Vera sleep, which was all she needed.

He came over to the bed some time later and brushed the hair back from her battered face, a sad smile on his face. "Hey… do you realize how much money you grabbed?"

"No…"

"A lot, Mon. A hell of a lot. We could live very comfortably on this for a long while."

She looked at him and could sense there was more underneath his statement. He didn't seem excited or overjoyed by this; he was conflicted.

"I wasn't really thinking. I just saw my money belt, and grabbed that, and then filled it with more. And there was still so much, so I took a few more bundles. It's dirty money. I don't really want to think about it."

"You got about 600,000 pesos."

Such a sum startled her. "I don't want it."

"We could sure use it though. We could get out of here easy, settle down somewhere in South America."

"But it's dirty," she repeated. "It's drug money. It was stolen. People were killed for it. I couldn't even touch all the other things in there… felt so wrong… not mine. But the money… I just… I shouldn't have…"

"I think I would have done the same. And it's kind of like restitution, but I still feel wrong, you know?"

She nodded and watched as Vera stirred.

"I don't care what you do with it, ok?" she said, tired and finished with the conversation.

The drive south, she spent a lot of time sitting in the passenger seat just staring at him, never letting go of him, her hand on his (though mindful that he needed it to shift), or a finger hooked in his pocket, or sometimes a stroke of his rough cheek. He always smiled in response, nonstop smiles of happiness and sympathy and relief.

She thought as they drove how it might be strange, their relationship. Not so much the particulars of their lives– for the life they led was undoubtedly peculiar, and no one could argue against that – but the understanding they shared that made it possible for them to rarely speak in depth about feelings or to examine certain parts of their lives in minute detail. What would most couples do in this situation? Talk it to death? That was the right thing to do, wasn't it? She was supposed to examine with him how traumatizing it was, how terrified she was, how violated she'd felt. But John didn't ask her any specific questions about that, not outside of the who and the what, and instead, he held her, every night, sometimes so tight she'd have to tell him to loosen his grip. He told her, as a good husband should, that if she needed to talk, he'd listen. And then he let her be, just as he had done the summer her mother died.

He was a good husband, and that was part of why she loved him so much. He did what he felt a husband should – he was affectionate, he took care of them all, he was perhaps the best lover she'd ever had for no one had ever paid so much attention to what she liked and responded too. But best of all, he gave her the space she needed to keep being her own person. Sure, she was introspective, far more than he could ever be, but that didn't mean she particularly needed to share it with him.

But sometimes she did need to just let him take over, and this was one of those times. He'd taken over contacting Shannon and trading the new truck in for something that didn't scream drug mafia quite so loudly. The drive and the destination were all in his hands. If asked, she wouldn't have been able to say where in South America they were going. The day they started travelling, when she'd entirely failed to respond to Vera's requests for a snack, he gently nudged her, asked her if she was ok, and made sure from then on to be both Mama and Daddy. He'd been overly cautious about touching her, knowing full well the ins and outs of sexual abuse and assault, and she appreciated that. The thought of having sex with him again did not upset her, but she didn't know how it would be to actually get that far. Not that it was an issue, given that they were all four sharing rooms. In the meantime, she was content to sleep and wake in his arms. When her dreams grew darker, even before she'd awaken, he already knew and coaxed her back to consciousness.

She knew Gibson was behind the shared rooms. They had money enough for separate rooms, but she needed to have them all there with her, her whole family. Gibson was the one who made sure a light was on at night and initially had tried to distract her whenever her mind wandered into darker places. But she needed to go there, she needed to get through it, and she needed to do it alone. She bade him keep his distance, no snooping around for anything, for any reason.

When she wasn't working through her trauma, she continued to think about John. Why did she love this man so much? Why did she, Monica Julietta Reyes, wild child from Mexico City, woman who felt energies and meditated, who went to Brown to study religion, who wasn't all that opposed to sexual relations with other woemn, how in the world had she fallen for John Jay Doggett, the former Marine who was so conventional, so simple, so traditional. Didn't talk about his feelings, hated the books, movies, and art she loved though he was a gentleman enough to pretend he cared, had a weakness for bathroom humor which he was wise enough to keep from her. Who would have thought she'd not only marry a man like this, but find in him complete and utter happiness?

"I had a girlfriend in college," she said on the third night to John and Gibson, or maybe to no one at all. "Her name was Ellen. We were together for nearly two years." She didn't say anything else, and instead indulged in memories of those days. What had driven them apart, besides their youth and Ellen's flight to Russia? Everything was so emotional. They fought and cried all the time, and then would go out clubbing, indulging in a make-up fuck in the bathroom. Where was Ellen now? Had she settled down with a nice woman?

It took a few calls and finally John jostling her shoulder before she rejoined them, blinking and smiling. She'd missed whatever John had said to her, but she assumed it was along the lines of "Are you ok?," which he asked her at least a hundred times a day. "I think we talked too much. We spent all of our time dissecting our relationship and very little time just enjoying it," she said, continuing off from where she'd left. John tilted his head at her and tried to smile.

"John thinks you're trying to tell him you're a lesbian."

She laughed, her first real hard laugh since her return. It wasn't even that funny. But she laughed until she had tears in her eyes.

When she could control herself again, she kissed him. "No. I was actually thinking about how much I love you. And why. It's ok; I'm not going to leave you to chase after the girl I dated twenty years ago."

Three nights later, when Gibson was in the shower and Vera sleeping, he pulled a chair up next to Monica who sat flipping aimlessly through a magazine.

"Mon, do you want to talk?"

"No, I'm alright."

He pulled the magazine away and she looked up at him with concern. "What you said a few nights ago… and everything that's gone on… you haven't really said much. I don't know what's going on in your head and I worry about you."

"I'm fine, I promise."

"You keep saying that, and I believe you, but I just feel like you're shutting me out a bit. Do you think that maybe we don't talk enough? I'm trying to be there for you, but I don't know what to do."

"You're doing everything perfectly. I need time and I need mental space to process everything. That's all." She reached for her magazine, trying to signal the conversation was at an end, but he put his hand on it to stop her. "John," she said with irritation.

"You said you thought you talked too much with that girlfriend of yours. But sometimes I… I feel like we don't talk enough." He looked hurt. "I don't know that talking's really such a bad thing." He took her hand in his. "I love you and I want to know everything that's going on in your mind. I'm more than a little jealous that Gibson can just hop in there any old damn time he likes, and I have to sit outside, hoping and waiting for you to volunteer up something."

She felt a sudden desire to fuck him, but she realized it was only out of a desire to avoid this conversation. She remembered back to the night before she left. He'd asked her why she loved him, and she'd just coyly avoided answering, instead choosing to pull him into bed with her. She thought about all the things that had been running through her mind over the last few days.

"I love you more than I ever thought possible. Even all those years that I loved you and couldn't be with you, even then I never thought I would love you more, but I was severely underestimating you. You make me laugh, with all your stupid jokes and how corny you can be. I see you with Vera and I nearly cry, because you love her just as much as I do, and because we made her. I love you for asking me a million times a day if I'm ok, though eventually that's going to get old very soon. I love you for being there, all the time. You may think you don't know what's going on in my head or how I feel, but you always seem to respond to me just as you should, and just when and how I need you to. I'm sorry I didn't tell you all that when you asked me the night of our anniversary. I love you for the fact that this is making you cry."

"Of course it's making me cry. You never really tell me these things. I know you love me, but for the life of me, I don't think I'll ever understand why, not even after all those fine words. I'm old and cranky and definitely not a looker."

"John, you are the most beautiful man I've ever seen. And that argument is old and has nothing to do with anything. You were and always will be the finest, most loving man I've ever come across. I'm rather amazed that you can stand to put up with me."

"I couldn't stand to be away from you. And you're not that bad after a person builds up a tolerance to your wacky ways of looking at things," he said with a grin.

"Now who's avoiding having a serious conversation?"

He looked at the bathroom door and realized Gibson must be taking an extra long shower to give them privacy. He promised him he'd hurry up. "I guess if we're gonna be deep and share our feelings… I mean, I think you know all this. I know I've told you this before. And I'm not good with words or deep thoughts. But you know you make me happy. You know the effect you have on me, 'cause you've seen it with your own eyes. All you've gotta do is smile at me and I feel every dark bit inside of me crumble away. That year working with you was the happiest year of my entire career, nah, of my entire working life. And this, this life we've built, it's been the only thing sustaining me all these years. What if I had left you behind? What if Gibson hadn't been listening for you that day? You made me a husband again, and a father, and you've been by my side like I never imagined you could or would even want to be."

"So, we're good now?"

"Better. We can do this again, right? When we're not all crammed into the same room and the boy doesn't have to hide in the shower for half an hour for us to have some privacy?"

"Yeah, we'll do this again," she said with the same smile that always made his world a little less frightening.

They had stopped about a hundred miles from the border of Guatemala the next afternoon. She was starting to feel more and more like herself again, and as John dropped into an internet café to check for a response from Shannon, she walked around an outdoor market, almost capable of holding thoughts together as to what they could eat for dinner. Gibson walked beside her, making sure that neither she nor Vera got lost. He was being very careful about staying out of her mind, even though it would probably have sped up the shopping process, and he kept himself focused on John.

"Holy crap," he said, and she looked back at him perplexed. "Shannon wrote back. I think you guys are safe. For good.."

"What?" she was barely able to understand the sentences his words had created, and it had far more to do with six years of running than the two weeks of hell she'd just lived through.

They returned to the internet café, and John called out to them, to her, using her real name. "Monica! Read this!"

She handed Vera to him, her brow still furrowed, and sat.

"FM & DS reached deal with bureau. FM no longer a fugitive; neither are you. Boy probably still in danger, but we can figure something out.

"Tried for two months to track you down. You should have written earlier. In Durango now. Someone tried to make contact regarding bounty on M. Got here too late, but happy to hear she got out alive. Where are you? We need to meet."

"My god," she said, breathlessly. And then she cried.

A few days later, they were back north for their meeting with Shannon, at the resort town of Valle de Bravo, a couple hours outside of Mexico City. "We're going on vacation. A real, honest-to-God vacation," said John, still conflicted about the money, but justifying it as their due, as Monica's due especially. He'd talked it over with Gibson, who'd pointed out that they certainly couldn't return it to anyone, and it was too dangerous to drive into Narcoland to charitably distribute it back to the people who were most affected by the drug wars. So instead, they rented a suite in a nice hotel, with views of the lake. It was there that Shannon met them.

"You have a good friend in Fox Mulder. He did for you what I could not." She explained to them the case with the missing FBI agent, detailing how both Mulder and Scully had come back to give their expertise in exchange for the manhunt being called off.

"Where are they now? Can we contact them?"

Shannon smiled slyly. "Part of their bargain was to get away. It looks like they're done. Wherever they went, I don't think they'll be back for a very long time, if ever."

"They're going to enjoy their last few years together," said Gibson with sadness.

Monica looked at him, and could see for the first time in years that he still missed Mulder. _What a bastard_, she thought to herself. He hadn't sent word, not even a hello, and hadn't left any contact information, for the boy, the young man, who still seemed to cling to the memory of what they'd had. She put her arm around his shoulders. _You've always got us_, she said, but he was keeping his promise to stay out of her brain.

Shannon looked at them, still so protective of the young man that they sat like bookends around him. Their own child played quietly on the floor near an old, white-faced dog. The girl looked up from time to time at the stranger in their midst, not at all understanding what was transpiring, but extremely watchful nonetheless. Monica had obviously suffered abuse during her captivity, and Shannon had to assume the worse, yet it was obvious that she would suffer far more if she needed to, for his sake.

"We need to figure out something to do with Mr. Praise. What I know is that Mulder requested his release too, but that request was met with confusion. No one claims to have any knowledge of his ever being chased, of course, which only means that they are still looking for him. But who and why exactly, other than the obvious, I cannot say. So at this point, I would say that you can either chose to stay in hiding with him, or perhaps consider separating." She doubted that they would ever consider it, judging by the grip Monica still had on him.

Monica had felt a little better, hearing that Mulder had tried to help, it didn't change the fact that Mulder was still absent and Gibson was still their concern. And her issues of his leaving her sight had yet to abate. "We're not going to separate, unless Gibson wants too."

"Gibson Praise needs to be killed off," said Gibson Praise.

"What do you mean?" asked Monica.

"I mean, we need to do something dramatic, but believable, to make them think that I'm dead."

"And then what, a new identity?" asked John.

"Not possible," said Shannon. "Unless you go through an illegal route. I wouldn't trust the Witness Protection Program for him, or any bureaucratic agency in the States." She turned to Gibson. "Did you have an idea of what to do? They know you're alive now, so it would seem odd that just as the two people with whom you disappeared re-emerge, you show up dead. "

"Then we do it later. I mean, it's way more obvious that I come out of hiding and then someone kills me. It also shows that John and Monica were right in trying to protect me the way they did. Plus, it gives us time to make it look believable. We just have to make sure that it gets done before they really come after me."

They worked out some of the details and Shannon promised to return in a month to aid them. In the meantime, they would need to return to Mexico City to start the process of getting proper documentation that would allow them to return legally to the United States. They would need to contact a lawyer, for there would be a lot of red tape to get through, especially regarding property, taxes and, in John's case, alimony. They would need to legalize their marriage and get Vera a birth certificate, as well as apply for her Mexican and American residency. The list was long and it made Monica's head swirl. She wasn't ready yet for real life; she was barely getting used to the resumption of her fugitive life.

Shannon left them with the name and number of a man at the American Embassy who was prepared to assist them in whatever they needed. She shook John's hand as she left and paused when saying good-bye to Monica. She hadn't been oblivious to her injuries, to the huge bruise on her cheekbone, the healing split lip, the abrasions, the thinness of her frame, and the green bruises on her wrists where someone had obviously held her down. A rush of human emotions came over her and she opened her arms, woodenly but with intention, and hugged her just long enough to whisper into her ear, "If they weren't already dead, I'd have killed them for what they did."

"Thank you," she whispered back.

They were at the resort for her to heal up in a quiet but comfortable place. She sat often out on the balcony, soaking up the early April sun. He could not coax her outside of the rooms, for she did not want anyone to see her until the bruises were gone, and she would not allow anyone to leave, except for necessities like food. When she seemed well enough to at least venture outside, to stick her feet in the water, or go for a walk, she refused his petition, claiming cramps, and stayed in bed the whole day.

He let her be for another week, gently asking her each day if she wanted to go outside, to escape the confines of their rooms, and each day she refused. Finally, he changed his tune and told her that they should start thinking about heading into Mexico City.

"We could just go back into hiding."

He furrowed his brow, confused. "Well, we could. If you think that's the best option. But we're free now. We ought to take advantage of that."

"But what if it's not true? We're risking everything by believing her."

"Gibson trusts her."

"But she can block her thoughts, remember? She could be withholding all kinds of things from us. Perhaps it's part of a plot that will land us right in their hands."

"Perhaps we've been on the run for so long we've forgotten what it's like to not feel hunted."

She stopped talking and closed her eyes to sleep.

The next night, as they sat in the main room finishing up a game of Lotería, Monica turned to Vera. "Would you like to stay in Gibson's room tonight?"

"No."

"You could have your own bed."

"It's not my bed. I sleep with you."

"Just for tonight, ok?"

"No."

Gibson rolled his eyes and turned to Vera. "Do you want to come watch a movie in my room? We could watch Shrek and eat candy."

She quickly agreed to that proposition.

"You owe me big time," he told them.

As soon as Vera was in Gibson's care, Monica stood and held her hand out to John. "I'm ready to get back to my life." She wasn't in the mood, particularly, but she didn't care.

He let her take the lead that night, careful to not push her in anyway, physically or emotionally. She understood and appreciated that. They took longer, much longer, than usual, each step carefully carved out. The kissing started slowly and gently, tongues teasing apart lips. Teeth nibbled on earlobes and fingers traced the crooks of necks. She removed their clothes, one article at a time. Bare skin was kissed and explored as it was exposed. When there was nothing but skin, she looked at him, this husband of hers, lying there, so calm despite the sweat on his chest and the hard-on that was obviously causing him distress. He wanted her and he wasn't about to take her, so she took him.

Her tongue slid up his cock, light and teasing, circling the tip until he moaned. She wrapped her lips around him, her hand warm and soft, moving in tandem with her mouth and he lay there trying to enjoy it and fighting the need to let go. He pushed against her head and begged her to stop or at least take a break, but she only ramped up her efforts until he came.

"You didn't have to do that," he said when she returned to his side, kissing his shoulder.

"I like it. And I know you do too."

"Oh, I do. Trust me, I do. But I thought… I like it better when you're up here with me, you know?"

She laughed kindly at him and snuggled into him as if she were going to sleep.

"Don't you want something?" he asked, unsure of what she was doing.

"No, I'm fine."

He cocked his head at her.

"You don't have to look at me all squinty-eyed like that. I mean it."

He touched her body, her beautiful body, which was finally starting to fill out again and showed almost no signs of the abuse she'd suffered. Cautiously, he put his hands between her legs and she could not hold back a shiver. His fingers felt her wetness and he looked at her for signs of fear or a desire for him to stop, but he only saw a face he couldn't read yet, so he slid his fingers inside of her, his thumb delicately stroking her clit, until she rolled over onto her back, signaling that she was agreeable to his advances. His tongue circled and flicked her nipples as he continued with his hand down below. Finally, he kissed his way down to her clit.

She was warm, slick and salty, and she whimpered with pleasure as his tongue stroked her clit again and again. His fingers hooked upwards, pressing and just barely moving against the rough patch of her g-spot; it was a move that never failed to bring her to orgasm. His tongue flicked faster and harder, until the whimpers in her throat broke out into soft, short cries. Her hands let go their iron grip on the bed frame, one moving down to grab his free hand, the other digging its nails into his shoulder, deeper and deeper until she came, her muscles spasming around his fingers. He slowed but didn't stop until it was over and she gently pushed his head away.

"That was good," she said.

"Yes, very good."

"I… I'm glad. I've missed this. I've missed you."

"I've missed you too, Mon."

"We're going to be ok?"

"I never had any doubts."

"Good." She smiled at him and turned off all the lights.


	62. Chapter 62

A/N: First off, happy birthday to the fabulous Annabeth Gish! Love that woman!

Secondly, sorry this one is so much shorter than normal. I spent way too much time this week working out a scene that doesn't even take place until 2013. I can hardly wait to get to it – it's full of sex, more sex, betrayal that shocked even me, and then the abduction of a child. OMG. Totally awesome. And all yours in just a matter of months! For now, enjoy my paltry offering!

* * *

At breakfast, John announced that they were going to leave and head into Mexico City.

"I'm not ready."

"I am. I'm more than ready. It's time we all got our lives back."

"Can we just stay another few days? I haven't even gone outside to enjoy the lake."

"You haven't wanted to until now. What's going on? Are you scared of going back?"

She stared at the table.

"Mon, I though we were going to talk more. Be more open."

She managed to raise her eyes and look at him, but still couldn't speak.

"It's because of her father," said Gibson. "Sorry Monica."

"I just… he… when I was…" She stopped and rubbed her face in her hands. "That Federale, Javierez, he made it sound like my father, like everyone, still thinks I killed my mother."

"This isn't like you. You were framed, we both were, and this is your opportunity to clear your name. You need to take advantage of that. Your father deserves to know the truth. And he deserves to see you again, and to meet Vera. Why don't you just call him. I'll be here with you, ok?"

"I'm just… I'm not ready."

"I think you're going to have to do this anyway." He stood and offered her his hand, which she accepted reluctantly. Once they were in the bedroom, he pushed the phone towards her. "You remember the number?"

She nodded.

"Do you want me to dial?"

She shook her head.

"He's going to understand. You just need to be strong."

She closed her eyes, slowing her breathing, clearing her mind, focusing. When she opened her eyes, she smiled at John, and told him she wanted to do this on her own. He nodded knowingly and left her with a kiss on the forehead. Then she dialed a number she'd never forgotten.

The phone rang twice, each time the silence in between made her heart jump. The maid answered as she'd expected., though it was a voice she did not recognize. It was common practice in the bureaucratic offices of Mexico City for officials to always be out and unavailable, regardless of whether this was true. Monica knew her father carried this over to his home as well, so she was prepared for the maid to say that he was not available.

"Tell him it's… Monica." She took a deep breath and listened to the phone being jostled, her heart pounding in her chest.

"Monica?"

"…Hi Papa." It was all she could get out before the tears started.

"Monica, is it really you?"

"Yes, Papa," she smiled with relief, for there was nothing in his voice that suggested disappointment or anger.

"Mi ija, are you alright? Where are you?"

"I'm fine, Papa. Everything's ok now. They told us we are no longer wanted. Not by the US, anyway. I… Papa, I didn't hurt Mama. You need to believe me."

"Mi ija, never did I believe you were capable of that. It never made sense. They were so sure. There was so much circumstantial evidence. Monica, your mother wasn't killed. The coroner said that she died of a heart attack. Whoever they were, they scared her so badly her heart just stopped, that's what the doctor thought. And then they did what they could to make it look like you'd done it."

"She was sick, wasn't she? She didn't want to tell me."

"Monica, your mother had been sick for a very long time. She hated having to admit it, or talk about it. I can only imagine getting to see you one last time must have been a gift from God to her. She was so worried when she heard the FBI called. I should have come home, but I never… I never realized it would be six years before I would hear from you again. I didn't realize how serious this was."

"I'm sorry Papa, for everything. If I hadn't come to the house, they would never have gone after Mama."

"Monica, listen to me, if you hadn't gone to the house, then she probably would have died a week, a month, maybe a year later. You would never have seen her again. The doctor told me she had just barely been getting by."

"But I saw you on the news, I saw you crying and begging me to turn myself in."

"No, Monicita, no. I wanted you to come home, I wanted you to prove to them that you were innocent. Running made you look so guilty. I didn't believe them, but you know how it is here, that you are guilty without any chance to prove your innocence. Are you sure it's safe for you to return?"

"The Federale that was handling my case, Javierez, he was killed recently."

"Yes, I heard that his body was found in Durango at some drug cartel's hideout in the mountains."

"I know. I was there."

"You were there? What were you doing there?"

"We got too close. They… they took me and held me for two weeks. Javierez had just come up from the D.F. And then something happened, I can't explain, and…" Her mind filled with unwanted images of mangled bodies and blood, so much blood.

"They were all killed."

"Yes."

"Are you alright?"

"I am, I am."

"Were you involved?"

"No, Papa, I swear. Please don't think of me like that." Her heart sank.

"Moni, your father's thinking of you as a Federal Agent, with a good head on her shoulders. I have always been proud of you, you know that. It pains me that you spent all these years thinking I wouldn't understand. You should have come to me for help. I would have used every connection I have to fight for you."

"That means so much to hear. I wish we could have. It's still dangerous, but we're in a better position to fight."

"When can I see you? When can you come home?"

"We're just at Valle de Bravo. We can be there in a few hours."

"I can't believe it. Six years. I've missed you so much. It's been very lonely."

"I'm sorry, Papa. I wanted to contact you so many times, but I was scared, and it wasn't safe. So much has happened in the last six years."

"Of course, mi ija. Come home, come tell me everything. I'm sure you must have many stories. Are you still with your partner and the boy?"

"I'm married now, to John. And the boy is now a young man, and yes, he's still with us. And Papa… I have a daughter. Vera. She's two. She's beautiful."

"I'm sure she is, just like her mother."

She stopped, her head spinning a little from everything, and she nervously twirled the phone cord around her finger. "Are you sure everything is fine? Are you sure you want to see me?"

"More than anything. Come home. I long to hold you in my arms again, Monicita, and to meet my son-in-law and granddaughter. You must come home and promise me you will stay for a while. We have so much catching up to do."

So it was settled. They packed up their few belongings and started the drive.

"I look terrible," she said.

"You look gorgeous," said John, in words and with his eyes.

"We look poor, like migrants."

"Like we've been fugitives for the last six years?"

"Yeah."

"Well, we can't do much about that now, unless you want to stop somewhere and go shopping. He's going to understand, Mon. And he's not even going to notice. When we get there, he's just going to see you."

It was true. They pulled up in front of the iron gate, as they had six years earlier. Before they could even buzz to let anyone know they were there, the gate jerked awake and slid open. Her father watched them pull in, running to the truck before it had stopped, and she jumped out, breaking down into tears of joy as his arms wrapped around her.

He had aged so much. His face was lined with sorrow that couldn't be hidden, even by the joy he felt now. He was nearing eighty now, though still nimble, she was painfully aware how much older he was. He'd lost a great deal of weight, and his clothes seemed to hang from his frame.

He looked her over and felt the same. He hadn't seen her since Christmas of 2001. Then, she'd seemed still like a young woman to him, even in her early thirties. Before him now stood a middle-aged woman, with a thinner face, with laugh lines and crow's feet. He thought back to the baby that had been handed to him thirty-nine years earlier, so tiny he thought he'd drop her, and tears of joy fell from his eyes.

His attention shifted, as a blue-eyed man came around from the other side of the truck, holding a shy toddler.

"You must be John, and this must Vera," he said, smiling, shaking his son-in-law's hand firmly. "Can I hold her?"

"She's not used to strangers," said Monica, taking Vera in her arms. "V, love, this is your grandfather."

"She understands Spanish?"

"She does. And she speaks it too, if we can get her to speak. Though once that barrier is down, you may miss the quiet," she said with a laugh.

"Monica, I've missed your laughter so much. I'm glad you haven't lost it." His attention shifted to Gibson, who stood in the background, leaning against the truck. He looked him up and down. "And this is the boy."

Monica introduced them, noticing the hard look on Gibson's face, the look of distrust they'd encountered back when they'd first been together.

"You know about me," said Gibson, after shaking his hand. "You know what I can do."

Esteban looked around. "Yes. We should go inside."

John placed a hand protectively on Gibson's shoulder. _Are we safe? Do you trust him?_ He wasn't about to let Gibson step into a dangerous situation. Esteban Reyes might technically have been his father-in-law, but he didn't trust him any further than he could throw him.

The young man bit his lip as he wandered through Esteban's head, looking for danger. What he found was far more than he expected. "You know a lot. You've known a lot for a very long time." He looked back at John and nodded.

"What did Gibson mean?" asked Monica when they were inside.

"Let's not speak of such things until Camilla leaves tonight. For now, there is so much to talk about, so much to catch up on. And I need to get to know my son-in-law and my granddaughter."

They talked for hours, except for Gibson, who sat by himself, not wanting to participate, despite Monica's urging. Esteban managed to dig up a box of Monica's childhood toys, and Vera soon warmed up to him, wanting immediately each new thing that he pulled out. Monica tried to explain that Vera wasn't greedy, they just had never been in a situation where they could give her many things.

"We will go shopping tomorrow," he told them.

"Papa, we're ok. We have all we need."

"Monica, let a father buy his daughter something new. And let him buy his granddaughter enough clothes and toys to fill that truck of yours."

She looked at her daughter, who had never had more than a handful of clothes at a time. She sat on the floor fascinated by one of her mother's dolls. Her hair was immaculate, pulled into tight pigtails, her face clean, her eyes bright. But her dress was stained, for it was truly impossible to keep her clean for longer than a few minutes at a time. Her worn sandals had been abandoned as soon as they came in the house, and Monica had a strong urge to pick them up and dispose of them permanently.

She was home again, and her desire to resume the life she'd known before was great. "How long can we stay?" She wanted to do crazy things like hang clothes in a closet or put them away in drawers. She wanted to buy a few books and put them on a shelf. She wanted to work again, earn money, real money, and help support her family. She wanted to enroll Vera in preschool so that she could socialize with other children, and see if Gibson could get into college and earn a degree. She wanted John to have some semblance of the life he'd given up. Now, looking into the abyss of the future from the stability of her childhood home, all of this seemed possible.

"As long as you need. This is your home."

"I'm not sure I want to go back. Ever." She looked at John.

"We can talk about that some other time. There are so many unknown factors right now, so much that needs to be settled and figured out. So I'm fine with sticking right here for a while, if your father agrees, until we have a game plan." Honestly, he hated to impose on a man he had only just met, and it wasn't in his nature to be dependent upon anyone, but he knew Monica needed to be with her father for a while, and with all that had happened recently, he couldn't deny her something like that. They all needed some quiet and safety, and though he wasn't too keen on living with her father permanently, just the thought of settling down somewhere was pleasing, even if it was Mexico. He really had nothing in the States to return to.

After Camilla had served dinner, Esteban excused her for the day. "This isn't the best dinner conversation," he apologized. "And I'm not sure how much you want us to discuss in front of Vera."

Monica looked at her daughter, who was seated on a stack of agricultural law books, spooning her food into her mouth, in between her infant ramblings. "I guarantee you she won't understand, but I can't promise she'll let us get much talking done. She's used to being the center of the universe."

"As she should be. I know it's different in the US, John, but I'm sure you've noticed by now that we Mexicans dote endlessly on our children. We spoil them, perhaps, in your eyes."

"Yes sir, I have noticed, but I fully support that kind of parenting. After I lost my son, I never thought I'd be a father again, and now that I am, I can't help but treat her as if she were the most valuable creature in the world."

"She may very well be to you. But there is someone at our table who probably deserves that title far more than my granddaughter." He looked at Gibson. "What are you going to do with the young man? I assume he is still wanted, and I must admit, I'm more than a little nervous having such a person in my home, no offense to you."

"None taken," said Gibson with a shrug. "I know they'll never stop coming after me. And I know that you're uncomfortable with how much I already know about you and what you know about colonization."

"Papa, you knew about that? How long have you know?"

Esteban concentrated on cutting up his steak. He wasn't sure where to begin. Vera took the silence to begin telling them about her car collection and the various kinds and colors she still needed.

"Vera, love, eat your dinner and let Abuelo talk. When you're finished, you can play."

"I'm finished," she said. Ordinarily, Monica would not let her leave with most of her food still on the plate, but she thought it might be a very good idea for the child to be distracted while they talked of more important matters.

"Papa?"

"I first heard of it in the '80s when we were beginning to shape the trade deal that would eventually become NAFTA. I wasn't supposed to hear it. I simply walked around a corner and into the conversation, but the look I received made me realize it would be best if I pretended otherwise. I asked in Spanish if they had seen one of my colleagues, and I tried to seem very distracted with the papers in my hand. They seemed fooled by my ruse, and I walked off calmly in full view of them.

"All that I'd heard were a few words… 'when the aliens come' and 'preparing the corn' I think were the exact words, but it was enough to make me listen more closely from then on. It would be years before I heard anything again, but finally some men from the U.S.D.A. came to speak to me about corn, specifically about genetically modified corn. There was still so much unknown about it and I was reluctant to bow to the pressure. We are the birthplace of corn. It was sacred to our ancestors. It is the cornerstone of our diet today.

"But they were insistent, even when I warned them that the Mexican people would never stand to allow such a thing. 'You need to prepare them,' they said heatedly, and I was chilled to the bone, for I remembered suddenly what I had overheard so long before. 'Genetically modified foods are the future, and you need to understand that. You can either chose to participate now, or you can deal with this down the line when when the bees have cross-pollinated our crops with yours.' I looked at them suspiciously. In all my years of working in the agricultural department, I had never heard a stranger threat, or one that was given so menacingly.

"I had to tell them that I would think about it, that I would discuss it with the Minister of Agriculture, just to get them to leave. And then I began to do my own research, taking trips up north to set up meetings with anyone who would talk to me. It took about twenty meetings before I could find one scrap of a clue. And then finally I got too close."


	63. Chapter 63

A/N - My readers stats suggest that at least 12 people are coming back each week to read this. Who the heck are you people? Why in the world are you still sticking with this story? Drop me a line and ease my curiosity sometime... Cheers!

* * *

"I know that man," said Gibson, his face blank but his eyes wide.

"The man who threatened me?"

"Spender. He was a very evil man. He… he kidnapped me. And he killed my parents."

Esteban put down the knife and fork he wasn't using and leaned back in his chair. In his mind, Gibson could see more connections, but it wasn't his place to say.

"You should tell her," Gibson said.

"Tell me what?"

"The man who warned me to quit digging, to stop asking questions about genetically modified corn crops, who warned me that such curiosity could lead to my death… He was the same man who had given you to me twenty years earlier."

Monica knitted up her brow. "Spender?" she asked with disbelief. "How did you know him?"

"Back in 1968, he was just one of the many people wandering around during agricultural meetings. I never worked with him, I never heard him speak. I never learned his name or saw it written on any document. But that was true for so many who worked there. I never thought anything of it. And then one day, when I was in Austin for a conference, he came up to me and shook my hand. He told me that he'd been asking around and had heard that Alejandra and I wanted children but were childless. He said there was a baby, just a day old, who had been abandoned by her parents. He told me they were involved in a variety of classified missions and that they were unmarried. Even before I saw you, I knew that you were our daughter. I think I might have cried tears of appreciation in front of him.

"He took me to the hospital and had the nurses put you in my arms. I'd already said yes. I knew your mother would love you too, instantly. He supplied the lawyer, who helped us with all the logistics, and pulled enough strings so that at the end of the week, you were home with us.

"I tried to thank him, to remunerate him for his services, to learn his name. But he shook his head, smoked his cigarette and waved it off with disinterest.

"I was warned about the corn in the 80s, not realizing that the man had any role to play in it. In 1988, I found someone who would talk to me about the corn. We met in a bar in Dallas. He told me bizarre stories about bees and viruses, aliens and invasions, and it wasn't hard for me to take him as insane. I went back to my hotel thinking I'd wasted all that time and money on a lunatic. But in my hotel room, sitting in the dark, filling it with cigarette smoke, sat the man whom I had not seen for two decades.

"He told me to sit down. At first, despite the fright it initially caused me, I thought he was paying something of a social visit. He asked about you, by name. How your schooling was going. He knew you were at Brown. It was starting to scare me how much he knew already. Then he told me to quit looking for answers to questions that hadn't been put to me in the first place. He advised me to go home, to return to my family, and to do my job, or I wouldn't have a job to do for much longer. Or a life to live. And that was that. He left.

"I didn't doubt that man at the bar any longer. I had gotten too close to something, and now I was being threatened to walk away from it. And I did honestly fear for my livelihood, and for you and Alejandra. So, I started preparing. The money your mother gave you, that was in preparation for the invasion. I have a little house, deep in the mountains, the deed of which is locked up in my safe. It was where I was going to take us to hide, and hopefully survive whatever horrors are coming."

He stared at his steak, which had now grown cold, and took a sip of wine, before looking up at his daughter again. Her face showed worry and distress and great thought. "It's a lot to take in. I'm sorry, Monicita. Perhaps I should have told you this all sooner. When did you come to learn of this?"

She and John began to tell their tale, of the x-files, of supersoldiers, of everything they'd learned on the job and while on the run, and what little they knew of C.G.B. Spender. By now, dinner was over, though no one had eaten much. They'd moved to the living room, where Vera lay sleeping on the couch next to her mother.

"Papa, there's one more thing. I think Spender contacted me too, back when I was in school. He seemed to want me to join the FBI. If that was him…" she tried to conjure up his face, or anything identifiable about him for Gibson to see, but there was nothing useful. "God. This is really too much to process in one evening. I… I think I need to call it a night." She went to her father, holding him for a long time, her head against his breast, and thanked him, though she did not try to explain for what.

After she'd gone up with Vera and Gibson, John sat looking at his father-in-law. It was obvious that they both wanted to talk about more immediate concerns. Esteban took a cigar from the humidor near his chair and offered one to John, who turned it down.

"My daughter, how is she? Really? She seems different, quiet and reserved, but it has been many years, and the struggles you have faced…"

"I think she's just overwhelmed right now. She won't talk to me either, not about what's going on in her head. The things she saw in Durango, it shook her up pretty bad. They tortured a man to make her speak and she still refused, and then they killed him, right in front of her."

"Did they torture her?"

"No, sir, not like that. Food deprivation seemed to be the extent done to her. The head guy though… he beat her up pretty badly, but that was after he learned who she was, and right before she escaped. He was apparently keeping her in one piece because he wasn't sure who she was yet."

Esteban thought through several puffs of his cigar. "I heard of the damage done there. The bodies being ripped to shreds. This was not in the news, of course. But when the man who initially led the investigation into my wife's murder shows up dead a thousand miles away, I pay attention, and I ask why he was there. I know he'd never given up searching for Monica." He took one last draw from the cigar before putting it out. "That is neither here nor there now. She is home, she is safe, and surely in time she will return to her former self."

"She will, sir. This is just a blip. She's kept me sane the last six years. The Monica I know will be back to her old self soon enough."

"Good. And just so you know, John, I am going to hire a security agency to keep watch over the house for a while. That young man is obviously a danger to us all and I'd rather not have my house be a welcome sign for those who wish to hurt him – or us to get to him."

"Agreed. Just let me know the cost."

Esteban gave a short laugh and clapped John on the arm. "You are family now. I would never dream of such a thing. A father protects his children, you know this. And after all your time living underground, I can't imagine you could ever afford such a luxury."

"You'd be surprised, sir."

"Well, then, keep it. As long as you are here, you mustn't worry about anything. Also, my name is Esteban, not sir," he said with a smile.

"Thank you, Esteban." They stood up to take their leave. "One last thing… I knew that coming here back in 2002 would be dangerous, and I'm grateful that we did it anyway so that Monica and her mother could see each other one last time, but I'm still very sorry for what happened. I wouldn't have left her had I know that they would go after her."

Esteban looked at him, but felt that there were really no words appropriate with which to respond, so he clapped him on the arm again.

"She didn't suffer, did she? It's been eating Monica up for six years, wondering how Senora Reyes really died."

"Everyone suffers in the end."

"You trying to tell me there was more than just a heart attack?"

Esteban looked around, but there was no one to overhear them, other than the mind reading young man upstairs. "They were not kind. She endured a lot before her heart gave out. And when they were through, they dumped her body on the side of the road, as if she were just another piece of garbage who had failed to pay a drug debt."

John took that in, calmly, the only sign of being upset his slowly tightening jaw. "I don't want her to ever learn that."

"Nor I."

He found her in bed, reading a book she'd dug up from the library, and he squeezed in beside her.

"Have you been smoking cigars with my father?"

"No ma'am. He offered but I turned him down."

She looked at him with a smile and a bemused look. "All this time in Mexico and you still turn down a present when offered? From my father, no less? On the first day you meet him? Oh, John, we have so much more work to turn you into a true Mexican." She snuggled into him, breathing in the familiar smell of her father, making her so grateful to be home. "I can tell he likes you."

"He's a good man. You were lucky to have made your way into their hands."

She nodded and snuggled in deeper.

"Mon, how are you handling all that?"

She breathed in sharply. "It's a lot to take in."

"I know."

"I don't particularly like being part of the conspiracy. It was better when I was just an outsider trying to do what I could for the cause. But now…" She toyed with the buttons on his shirt, her mind still not having wrapped itself around everything. "How did Spender get involved in m life? Why? Who are my parents? I never cared much before, maybe when I was young and hoped for some sort of dramatic plot twist in my life, but certainly not once in the last decade. It never concerned me. I just thought my birth parents gave me up because they couldn't take care of me. Now… if Spender handed me over, then does that mean my parents were involved in all of this too? Were they conspirators? Are they still alive, plotting to help the aliens take over? Are they the bad guys in this?"

"Do you want to look into it? Maybe someone back at the FBI could do some digging around."

"I would guess that very little information about my birth and adoption will ever be known. Spender works for an underground agency, right? So one must assume that my parents did too and that everyone involved, even the lawyer who handled the adoption, must be as well."

"Maybe not. There's always a weak link somewhere, a misfiled paper, something that should have been destroyed but wasn't, someone who's willing to talk."

"I'm not sure I want to pursue anything, not so soon after getting home. Maybe we should concentrate on getting all of our legal issues straightened out first. By then, I should know what I want to do."

They met a few days later at the Embassy with Tony Facelli, the head of consular affairs, but upon walking into his office, they found a much larger crowd than anticipated. The Ambassador of the Embassy himself shook their hand sternly, as did one of Tony's subordinates, and then they were introduced to several members of the Mexican authorities. Monica held Vera tightly, but Gibson nodded to her the ok.

With the help of their new lawyer and the half dozen men gathered together, they began to sort out the processes that would need to take place to reintegrate them into society. There would be countless forms to file for everything from getting them new passports to visas to a real marriage license.

"This is a special case, obviously, and we have been working with several agencies stateside to pre-empt any legal crises before they unfairly cause problems. You have been exonerated of all charges, as I know you are aware, but your situation did create many circumstances that led you to breaking laws in both the United States and Mexico. But we have it on pretty high authority to ensure that this is all taken care of and that you are not charged with any crimes, no matter how small. We are here to help cover-up, so to speak, a lot of what has happened. I do want to assure you that the people gathered here today are the only ones who have any knowledge of this. Any paperwork will be filtered through our hands first, before being passed on to anyone else."

"Which agencies are involved in the U.S.?" asked John. "How many people there are handling the situation?"

"FBI, obviously, as well as the DOJ, specifically the U.S. Marshals, but also your ally Shannon McMahon."

"That's all?"

"That's all we're at liberty to discuss. But please be assured that your situation is being handled with utmost confidentiality."

"Are we safe here in Mexico?" asked Monica. "And what of the lives we left behind?"

"You are safe, entirely so," assured the Ambassador. _Your secret is safe with me, Mr. Praise._

Gibson stared at him without expression. He was truly the only person at the embassy who knew, at least as far as both he and Gibson were aware.

"As for your lives back home, there is another man who can speak to that, though his flight was delayed. We are expecting him within the hour. In the meantime, we can begin to discuss with our friends from the Mexican government just how much legal backtracking they are willing to do regarding your residency, your child's citizenship, and Mr. Praise's unique situation, as a kidnap victim whom it seems was never truly kidnapped and who seems to be quite at ease in your presence."

They had just begun to tackle the issue of residency, and Facelli had urged both John and Gibson to avoid starting down the track to becoming Mexican citizens. "Once you become a Mexican citizen, you are subject to the laws of Mexico and we cannot technically assist you with legal matters. And given the circumstances of your being here, I would advise you to keep that avenue open." But before John could question why it was they were able to help now and not later, Facelli's secretary buzzed that his missing guest had arrived.

When A.D. Skinner walked in through the door, Monica leapt up, her daughter in one arm and her free arm wrapping around him. "We thought you were dead!" she said with so much emotion and with such force in her hug, that Skinner could not help but feel less than dignified, and could hardly return her unexpected affection.

"Reyes, Doggett, Gibson," he said with professional detachment. "I see that you are all well." He looked at the child, but didn't feel the need to acknowledge her. Monica beamed at him, barely able to take her eyes off of him. "I'm sorry I'm late. Where were you?"

"Actually, Ms. Reyes had a question that only you can answer."

"Mrs. Doggett," she corrected Facelli. "The Church marriage may not have been legal, but it was a marriage."

Facelli nodded in concession.

Monica smiled at Skinner again, unabashedly, and held Vera too tightly in her joy at seeing her former boss alive and well. "How are you, sir? How have you managed? What happened after we helped Mulder?"

"Reyes… Doggett… I did not come here to walk you through the last six years of my life. I came to discuss FBI matters with you." Monica's smile fell to a respectable level, though her eyes still shined. "I am sure you are aware now of the basics of Mulder's deal with the FBI. Are you aware of why that deal was made?"

"Yes," answered John, "there was a missing agent, and someone convinced Scully to talk Mulder out of hiding. The agent was saved and Mulder was exonerated. And in the deal, he somehow remembered us."

"He asked about the x-files, if they would ever be reopened, but I told him that as far as I knew, there was no chance of it. Scully only knew that the two of you had left the FBI, but she did not know under what circumstances. She had gone underground for a year, thereby missing the initial investigation into your disappearance. And neither knew that you had taken off with Gibson.

"One of the first things he asked me, Gibson, was if I knew of your whereabouts, if you were safe. I told him what I knew, that the two of you had taken him here, but there had been so few sightings that I could not say for sure if any of you were still alive. But Mulder seemed to have a great deal of faith in you, Doggett, citing your previous work with fugitives and your 'single-mindedness' towards your objective. And he hoped that you and Monica were happy together." He felt awkward saying that, but Mulder had looked so intensely sincere when he'd said it, he felt like it was a message he was meant to pass along.

"As far as your current standing with the FBI, let me assure you that all charges have been dropped and all investigations have been closed. I do not know the nature of those investigations, as I was removed entirely from them." He did not explain himself further, but they knew that he was referring to the elements of their lives as pertaining to the x-files themselves. "If you wish to return to the FBI, this can be arranged, though you would both have to reapply for your positions after a certain amount of retraining at Quantico, which can be discussed further if you are interested."

"We haven't yet decided, sir," said John. "It hasn't even been a week since we came back."

"Understandable. In the meantime," he said, opening up his briefcase, "I have several documents for you to sign, related to properties seized by the FBI during the investigation. There is a storage space in Virginia holding the contents of your homes. Because of the initially perceived illegality of your situations, I'm afraid your cars were sold at auction, along with your home, John. But your ex-wife," he took a minute to scan through the document in hand, "Barbara, she stepped forward as your next of kin, and requested right of ownership to your belongings, citing your son and the fear of anything related to him being sold off. How she convinced them to include your belonging, Reyes… Doggett – I'm sorry – I don't know."

John's forehead scrunched up. "Barbara, my ex-wife, she asked to keep our things?"

"Yes, that's what the report says."

"That doesn't seem right. Last time I talked to her, she'd told me not to contact her again. Made it real clear that she wanted nothing to do with me. Even said she was going to have her lawyer draw up some papers to end the alimony payments, though I told her I wanted to keep making them, but I had to leave before they were filed. What about our bank accounts? I had the alimony payments set up to pay out automatically."

Skinner rustled through his papers and dug up the financial asset reports. "Let's see… neither bank account was closed. Both were being monitored for use. It looks like the only action going on was in your account, a monthly deduction of $550, and that looked like it was being transferred directly to your ex-wife's account. It doesn't look like you've got much left, though. You, on the other hand," he said to Monica, "are doing quite well. You'll both want to contact your banks and see about getting access to your funds, though I imagine a return to the U.S. will be necessary to clear up several issues."

"And Gibson?" asked Monica. "Is he really safe?"

Skinner looked around the room, unsure of who knew what, so he looked at the young man for guidance and was given a barely perceptible shake of his head. "The men who were threatening Gibson's life when he was 14 are unknown, so it is impossible to say anything regarding that matter. The FBI, unfortunately, spent the majority of their investigation focusing on capturing the two of you and not the reasons why you felt it necessary to rescue Gibson."

"If you would like to return to the United States," said Facelli said to Gibson, "we can work on your case independently of the Doggetts."

"No, there's nothing there for me. They've protected me and taken care of me. They've been like parents to me. I want to go to school and get a degree, but I'm not sure I want to leave them to do it."

They continued talking for another hour, until it was decided to go ahead and process Vera's Mexican birth certificate, and speed up the process to get John and Gibson FM-3 visas. They handed over the passport photos they had taken on the way over and were promised new passports by the end of the week. Esteban passed out checks right and left.

After the meeting ended, Monica invited Skinner to her father's house for dinner. "There is so much to talk about, so much that could not be discussed in there."

"Yes, I'm aware," he responded, busily keeping a close eye on anyone who walked near them in the Embassy. "I've got some other business to attend to today, but I could probably drop by tomorrow."

She hugged him again, this time without her daughter in her arms. "I'm just so glad you, Mulder and Scully are all alright. You have no idea how worried we were."

"I'm equally relieved to find you and Doggett are both safe, along with the boy." _You know you're still being hunted?_

Gibson nodded. "We can talk more tomorrow."

It was their third evening at Monica's home. Already, Vera had completely warmed to her Lito, as her grandfather insisted she call him. It was in no small part due to the fact that every few hours, he would surprise her with a new toy or book. The tricycle he bought her was conquered within minutes, and she zipped all over the house with ecstatic glee-filled laughter. "She's got your laugh," said Esteban, feeling entirely rejuvenated in the presence of his granddaughter. "I may never let you move out."

That night, Monica had sex in her parents' home, for the first time ever, and was only slightly afraid of her mother's ghost unhappily pointing out that the Church wedding was nice, but there was still a legal ceremony to get through, but John laughed it off. "If she was really that bothered, I think she would have tracked you down years ago." She managed a laugh too, but couldn't shake the feeling. "As soon as all that paperwork is in order, we'll make it legal first thing, but it still weeks away and I don't particularly want to wait any longer."

While they made love that night, John felt a pop. He wondered if the condom had broken, moved again and surmised that it had indeed broken, moved again and wondered if he should say anything, and then stopped moving when he came to his senses. He pressed his forehead against hers and managed to say "Stop" in a very strained voice.

Monica didn't move, her brow furrowing with confusion. "What's wrong?" she asked nervously, trying not to think of her mother's ghost interfering.

"I think the damn rubber broke."

Monica pulled away from him instantly, a little too quickly he thought. "You didn't come, right?"

"No…" he said, peeling it off and tossing it aside, "but Mon, would it really be so bad? I mean, we're free now, right? Your dad seems fine with letting us stay here for as long as we need. My visa should be ready next week, and I can start looking for work, if you'll sponsor me." He held her breast in his hand as he talked, gently playing with her nipple, and kissing the nape of her neck.

"Are you trying to tell me you want more kids?" she asked, moving her head away from him and brushing his hand off.

"Well, yeah, I guess I am."

She sat there in silence, looking into the darkness where he lay. He didn't need to see the lines of annoyance on her face, for he could hear them when she spoke. "And the alien invasion doesn't worry you at all? You're just fine bringing a child into a world that may not last another four years?"

"We don't know for sure what's going to happen. And to be honest, it's not our fight any longer."

"Gibson's involved, Vera was running from something horrific in your vision, and now that I know I have some sort of connection to it… it's always going to be our fight."

"We can talk about it later then."

"No. There's nothing to talk about. I'm not having more children. And anyway, I have a job interview in a couple days, so I guarantee you I have no intentions of getting pregnant."

"A job interview? You didn't tell me that."

"I didn't want to say anything until I met with them. They help victims of drug trafficking and kidnapping. They do work in cities and towns trying to empower the victims to help stamp out the drug lords who control them. The position I spoke to them about today is in their Mexico City office, specifically dealing with helping female victims."

He chewed on that for a few seconds. "But what about Vera? Who's going to take care of her?"

"Seriously, John?" she asked as she moved even further away from him. It dawned on her suddenly just how traditional John was. Never had Vera's care been an issue before, not while she'd been nursing. And she'd been so happy to do it, to be with her daughter on a daily basis. But now that they were back in real life, it just seemed natural for her to return to work. She remembered that Barbara had been a stay-at-home mom, a fact that she'd never explored in depth, but had assumed had more to do with Barbara than John. Now she wasn't so sure.

"I'm not going to stay at home for the next four years, barefoot and continually pregnant with your babies."

"I'm not saying that, Mon," he said, growing annoyed himself. "Just, another one would be nice."

"Well, you're going to have to go make one with someone else, because I'm not even discussing this with you any longer." She rolled over, pulling the sheets tight around her body. "And I'm going back on the Pill tomorrow."

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry. I won't bring it up again. But really, what about Vera?"

"Why don't you stay home with her for a change? Someone's still got to protect Gibson, and as reassuring as those security guards are outside, I don't fully trust them should someone come after Gibson. Anyway, we should think about getting Vera into a daycare over the summer so that she's ready to be enrolled in preschool next year. Why don't you just enjoy the chance to be a stay-at-home dad for a little while and let me get some sleep now."

He kissed her covered shoulder and tenderly traced his fingers up and down her frame. "We shouldn't go to bed angry. And I don't want you to be mad at me because I want to have more children with you."

She signed and rolled over, keeping the sheet between them. "I'm more mad at the circumstances of our life. And I'm mad at you because you want to play house like none of that will happen. I'm not mad because you want more children. But if you so much as try to initiate sex before the Pill has kicked in, I will have to defend myself."

He could tell that she was fighting a smile, for her voice began to constrict just before she quit speaking. As delicately as possible, he continued to touch covered form, his finger gazing her cheek, sliding down her arm, down her ass and thigh until she shivered ever so slightly. "There's at least one way to have sex without worrying about all that," he whispered in a voice that made her melt into him.

"I'm trying to be mad at you."

"And I'm just trying to make sure we go to bed on good terms." She let him pull down the sheets, but only because his lips and teeth trailed behind it, all the way down, until she forgave him entirely.


	64. Chapter 64

A/N: Where did the week go? Sorry this is so ridiculously short. I didn't even hit 2,000 words this week! If I'm properly repentant, you will have 6,000 next week...

* * *

She opened her eyes in the morning and found John staring at her, breaking into a smile as soon as she saw him. "I'm sorry about last night," he said, gently playing with her bangs.

"You don't have to apologize for that. I understand. You know if the world wasn't in such peril, last night might have gone very differently."

"Really?"

"Mmhm. We already made the most perfect child in the world. I wish more than anything we could give her a sibling. And I don't know about you, but I always longed for a brother or sister. I'm sure she will too."

"And if we survive this thing, if the world is ok in the end, what do you say about having this discussion then?"

She laughed at him. "Ok, let's say 2012 goes by and all is calm and quiet and the aliens have changed their minds, do you realize how old we will be? I would be… 44 and you would be 53. I love you, but not that much," she said with a smirk, and he knew that she did indeed love him that much, but would avoid such an event at all costs. "And by the way, should there be another 'accident,' you're going to be the primary caretaker. I can't believe how eager I am that this job interview goes well. I'm practically nostalgic for suits and paperwork."

Skinner arrived that evening, looking just as uncomfortable and standoffish as ever. Monica tried very hard to find a topic that would put him at ease, but to no avail. She could sense that he really would have preferred a simple meeting, not a dinner with her father where he would be expected to socialize.

"My father already knew a lot. He knew about the corn, the bees, colonization. We just filled in the gaps." Skinner nodded, his face never revealing what was going through his mind. He was grateful that Gibson Praise was holding his tongue.

"You warned me yesterday that I was still being hunted," said the young man, "but you don't seem to know by who. Did you have any suggestions for what I should do?"

"The only reasonable thing would be to stay underground. You are extremely vulnerable right now. Mulder's reappearance was noticed by many, and I'm sure that those who wanted to know would have heard by now that Monica and John have also resurfaced. It won't take much for them to figure out that you're still with them."

"We're going to fake my death."

"They won't believe it unless they have your body in hand."

"There will be a body. It just won't be mine."

Skinner studied the young man, a little chilled at the plan without even having heard the details. "How will you manage that?"

Gibson filled him in on the details, but still Skinner was nervous. "It probably won't convince them. They'll still come looking for you. More so if they think your death is just a ruse."

"I know. That's why I'm planning to disappear for a while."

Monica turned to him with concern. "You never told us that."

"Because I knew you wouldn't like that part of it."

"We just got here." She looked at her father and John, neither of whom did she want to leave behind at the moment, but she made her decision regardless. "John can go with you. But you have to promise it won't be for long."

"No. I'm going alone. Remember, I'm an adult now. You told me when I was 18 that I could leave and go out on my own. Now I'm taking advantage of that, but only to make my death more believable, and to take some of the heat off of you."

"I know we told you that, but it's still not safe. Just a year and a half ago you were nearly beaten to death. And what if you get pneumonia again? You still get regular chest infections. Those could turn into pneumonia before you even have a chance to get yourself to a doctor. And what happens if you have an accident? How are you going to take care of yourself?"

Gibson gave her a half-smile. "I'm going to take care of myself like every other twenty year old who's out there on his own. It'll be fine. I've made mistakes, and maybe I'll make more, but I'll be ok. And I promise I will call if anything life threatening happens."

"I'm not ok with this."

"I know. But you have to let me go at some point. You're home now and I'm happy that you're free and can enjoy your life. I'm never going to have that, no matter if I hide or fake my death. But if I do this, then maybe I can buy myself some time. I can come back in a few months, live openly, and not worry about them looking for me. But if you or John aren't here, living opening yourselves, then they will just assume you're still hiding me."

_I don't like it._

Gibson ignored her. That was the way it would be, whether he had her permission or not.

"While we're on the subject," said Skinner, "I'm a little disconcerted about your involvement with Shannon McMahon. Is there a reason you feel so much trust towards a supersoldier? You do realize that they were created to destroy the human race when the time comes."

"Yes, sir," said John. "But she has more than proven herself again and again. She protected us when Monica was pregnant, directed us to a place to hide for almost a year. And when it wasn't safe any longer, she came herself to let us know we needed to leave. Sir," he said, well aware of Skinner's skeptical gaze, "she explained to us that they weren't entirely successful at turning her into a supersoldier. She retained a lot of her humanity. She still remembers the bond we shared when we were in the Marines, which is why she could never just leave me at their mercy."

"I leave that to your discretion, but I would advise you to consider breaking off contact with her, just to be on the safe side."

"She has become a valuable ally to us, though," said Monica. "I've come to trust her, like I never expected I would. And I've always been good at reading people. She has a good energy, a good soul."

Skinner looked hard at Monica. "She is not a person, and she has no soul."

"I think you're very wrong. She's on the right side, I know, I can feel it. Whatever they tried to do to her, they failed. If you knew her at all, you would understand."

"I was wondering, sir," said John, trying to break the tension, "if you could help us out with something. We need you to do a little investigating on C.G.B. Spender."

Skinner started. "How in the world do you even know who that is?" He looked at Gibson, but the young man shook his head.

"John," warned Monica. "We don't need to involve Skinner with this. This has only to do with me."

He ignored her, for the best of intentions, and continued. "It seems he was involved in Monica's adoption. We don't know why, but for some reason he contacted Senor Reyes, asking if he wanted to adopt the child of two people who were in particularly sensitive positions. We were wondering if you could maybe poke around a little and see what he was up to in January of 1968, see if there were any people he was friendly with. Most particularly, see if there was a female agent – FBI, CIA, something else entirely – who might have disappeared at that time."

Skinner sighed. "Honestly, I don't know much about the man. I've always been fairly confident that Spender was an alibi. I can tell you that there are very few records of him, and the few that exist are uninformative. And if anyone knows about the man, it's going to be Mulder. Spender was part of a group called the Syndicate, but none of those men are alive today. Jeffrey Spender never knew his father well as C.G.B. Spender, and certainly didn't know the man he was before. I'm afraid such a search would yield nothing. But I will look into any female agents or operatives from that time – there weren't many – and let you know what I find, if you think it important."

Monica looked at him with solemn eyes. "I don't want to get you mixed up in anything dangerous. But I seem to have a connection to this that I never anticipated. I don't know what it would solve or accomplish to learn about my birth parents, but maybe there is some useful information.

"But while we're on the subject of usefulness," she segued, "I was wondering if you could give us some guidance. Particularly John. I'm hoping to go back to work soon, but not for the government, and not in any field that would help to fight the coming occupation. But maybe you could put out feelers and let John know if there's anything in particular he could be doing. If there's a Mexico connection, as there seems to be with the corn, then perhaps there is something John can do to help with the fight on this side of the border."

John looked at his wife with gratitude. As much as he loved his daughter, he'd already gone six years without an occupation that truly satisfied him, and the thought of being a stay-at-home dad just didn't feel right. Repairing automobiles was more a hobby that entertained him than a career that sustained him. He also realized Monica was pulling him back into the fight that he said was no longer their business so that he would never be able to use that excuse again. "If there is anything that can be done to stop the invasion, I want to be part of it."

Skinner concentrated on his food for a while. He still wasn't comfortable having this discussion with his former agents, or with anyone. He knew full well what was going on, but he preferred to keep his hands clean. When the time came, he knew the Marine in him would not go down without a fight, but he also assumed the invasion and his death were inevitable. He looked at John and Monica, both of whom held hope in their hearts. He thought of their child and assumed she must be the personification of that hope, for he did not know she had been born before their knowledge of colonization. And he thought of what they had sacrificed over the last six years just to keep one boy safe. They needed a purpose, they needed justification for everything they had gone through.

"I'll see what I can do."

He did not tell them who he had met with earlier in the day (and he certainly did not want anyone to know the type of company he had entertained during the previous evening), though Gibson would know. All he could do was hope for the young man's discretion. _When the time is right, I will tell them_.

He took his leave and left them with promises to help them in all their requests as best as he could.


	65. Chapter 65

Life began to settle into something far more manageable than before, and John and Monica both found that they could breathe again. They were still living as quietly and unobtrusively as possible, but they managed to stretch out and enjoy their newfound freedom in some ways – a trip to a movie theatre, a call to an old friend, setting up an email account.

Monica's initial meeting with her job prospect went well, and she was soon scheduled for a real interview. It would pay a pittance compared to her former job at the FBI, and it wasn't even full time, but it was a job, and it meant a lot to her. The girl, the young shamaness, was always on her mind, a guiding force, and she was compelled to do something. Part of her wanted to find work that would be beneficial towards defeating colonization, but she could not ignore the pull of this other group, and she wasn't one for arguing with her feelings. She needed to be there, and time would tell why.

John and Gibson stayed closer to home, waiting for passports and visas, jumping through whatever legal hurdles were necessary. While John started his own investigations into the Mexican version of the FBI, law enforcement possibilities (the police being nothing but a joke in the country, but he hoped to be able to find contract work in the efforts to reform the nation's police force), and even positions in the Mexican government itself.

Gibson meanwhile, surreptitiously began to make the plans for his own disappearance. He hoped to stay long enough to be with them for their legal marriage, for he knew it meant a lot to Monica, but if trouble popped up, he'd be out of there immediately, even if they hadn't had time to fake his death.

The phone rang one evening over the weekend, just after Monica had put Vera to bed. "It's Julia," her father said, handing the phone to her. "You should talk to her. It's the third time she's called."

Monica had not spoken to a single relative since her return, with the exception of the her father. She was still feeling overwhelmed and still worried that her mother's family thought the worst of her, despite her father's reassurances against such beliefs.

John looked at her questioningly as she hesitated to take the phone. "That's your cousin, right? Why don't you just say hello?"

"It's complicated."

Julia was the closest thing she had to an older sister. It was Julia who had frightened them as children with tales of La Llorona, and she was also the first to both show her admiration for her younger cousin, but also to offer up steep criticism as they grew older. She was far more traditional than Monica, having studied law in university, but never pursuing a career due to marriage and children. She could not believe that Monica had not only left Mexico, but had left the Church, breaking her mother's heart twice over, not to mention her reluctance to even try to settle down. When Monica had tried to explain once about her friend John Doggett, Julia had laughed. "You are never going to find yourself a husband if you sit around waiting for a man like that to notice you."

It would be different now. She would have an edge, proof that waiting for John had been worthwhile. She had a child now. Granted, when Julia was her age, she'd had five, but Monica didn't want to be Julia. She also didn't want to hear from someone who knew nothing about her situation, that running off for six years was stupid and another example of breaking her mother's heart, this time literally.

But John gave her another look, the one that said, "Suck it up," and she took the phone in hand, composing herself. "Hola, Julia."

"Mother Mary, Jesus, and the saints combined, you finally answered. I could not believe my little cousin, my little namesake, would not speak to me. We've been worried sick about you for six years, and it takes you two weeks to finally speak to me? Monica Julietta Reyes, you better have a damn good excuse."

There was a playfulness in Julia's voice that put Monica at ease and a smile flitted across her face. "I'm sorry, but it's just been such a dramatic adjustment. It's a lot to get used to. Just a month ago, we were still in hiding."

"A month? A month, she says, like it's nothing!" Monica was now aware that there were many other people in the room with Julia. "You should have called us the moment you knew."

"It was rather complicated. It still is. How many people are listening in?"

Julia started to list off everyone around her, and Monica smiled with the memories of her family. There were nieces and nephews, cousins and cousins-in-law, aunts and uncles, and her madrina. A baby started to cry in the background.

"Who is that?" asked Monica.

"Oh, that's Pablo. Did Tio Esteban tell you that I'm a grandmother now? Isn't that shocking? I find it shocking. Lita," she spoke of her eldest, "went and got married at nineteen, silly girl. So, I'm a grandmother before I'm fifty! I tried to tell her, Lita, no, let your mother pretend she's still young, be like her cousin Monica and don't ever get married! But, Tio tells me that this is not the case at all anymore. In fact, I hear you have finally made him a grandfather."

Monica relaxed a little into the couch, resting against John. She talked to her cousin, and through her to the crowd of family gathered in the background, telling them about her husband and child, and a few of the safer stories of the last six years. The phone was passed to John, and Monica could hear the cheers in the background, showing their approval at his Spanish, and the laughter when he mangled a phrase here and there.

"Monica, we're coming to visit you tomorrow. Just Pablo and me," she said, referring to her husband, "and maybe one or two of the kids. Nothing big. I'd bring your Madrina Fidelia, but she is getting too old for such a crazy trip."

Monica tried to dissuade them, but they came the next day regardless. Julia and Pablo, their children Gracia, Javier, and Julio, all crammed into one truck, followed by another carload of relatives, her Tia Aleta and Tio Rico, her cousins Marisol and Maribel, and Maribel's husband Valerio, as well as their three-year-old son, Domingo. "We thought Vera would like someone to play with," explained Julia, though no explanation was given for the threefold increase in guests. "Oh, she's a beauty! Look at those blue eyes, and her hair – she's practically blonde!"

Vera was busy trying to hide in her father's arms, but the throng of strangers surrounded them and made it impossible, as they touched her hair and tried to tickle her kicking feet. "I want Gibson," she wailed in English.

"What is a gibson?" asked Julia with a laugh.

In all their years on the run, the fact that they had taken the boy had managed to never spread further than a few government officials and a handful of police. Legally, he'd been in protective custody beforehand, and advertising his existence would only have put him in jeopardy, the FBI had explained, years earlier. So it wasn't a surprise that Julia had no knowledge of the person with whom they'd been living all this time, the very reason for their flight.

Monica smiled and took her weepy daughter in her arms. "We'll go calm down for a bit, ok?" She took her upstairs and handed the still sniffling girl to Gibson, who was holed up in the bedroom, mp3 player blasting music so loud into his ears Monica could hear it. She pulled his earbuds out and looked at the young man as he listening to the child's broken, sobbing voice explain all the horrors that were going on downstairs.

_You can't leave us. At the very least, you can't leave V_, Monica thought as she watched him interact with her child, soothing her just as she needed.

"Monica," he said solemnly, "You'll all be ok without me. And it's just for a few months."

"I'm worried about you."

He rolled his eyes. "I know it's because you don't want me to leave. I know things have been hard for you lately, with what happened in Durango and suddenly coming back and having all these people rush back into your life. But it's really ok. And not one person down there blames you for what happened. They are all happy you're back."

She placed her hand on his cheek. "Thank you."

"And John wants you to know that he's sweating bullets down there and you should get your… um… backside down there as soon as possible. But then he started thinking about your backside, so I had to get the heck out of his mind, and I haven't been back in there since."

"I wish you could meet them."

"I know. But it's not safe. Just go be with them. They're all waiting for you."

She took her daughter and started towards the door.

"Monica," said Gibson, "your cousin Julia really does like you. You're her favorite. She cried when she heard you were back, she was so happy. And she didn't want anyone else to come with her. You two should talk in private or something." He gave a half-smile and popped his earbuds back in.

She came back feeling more relaxed and even John could see the improvement in her demeanor. The fear in her heart was gone and she mingled with her relatives with a grace and certainty that made her father smile. Vera too began to calm, once Monica insisted that everyone take a step back and just let her play with her second cousin. "She's never really spent much time around other children," Monica tried to explain, but she could tell that even if they truly understood that the child had had no playmates her own age, they would never understand how little Vera could comprehend someone her own age. But it was Monica who did not understand the resilience of children and their ready adaptation to new situations, because by the time dinner was served, the two youngest children were quite attached to one another.

She managed to sneak away with Julia as well, the two of them wandering through the backyard talking of marriage and children. She told her the story of La Llorona, and Vera's near drowning, which surprised Julia. "I only told you all that to scare you… I never dreamed she might be real." And Julia filled her in on every single thing she could think of that hadn't already been said during the day. But at some point she stopped and looked at her cousin with an intensity that made Monica's stomach turn. "You've said so little about yourself, about your life these last six years. What are you hiding? Why did you leave?"

"It's safer that you don't know."

"What did you get mixed up in? Did you steal secrets from the U.S.? Is that why you're not going back?" 

"I can't speak to that. But we're staying because I want to stay here. This is where my family is, and John doesn't mind."

"Are you sure you're safe? Why would they chase you for so long and then stop?"

"Julia, believe me, please believe me, when I say that I can't tell you."

"Did you learn something dangerous as the FBI?"

Monica didn't respond.

"Is that why they killed Tia Alejandra?"

Monica closed her eyes and nodded.

"You shouldn't have told her."

"I know. But at the time, I didn't know how dangerous they were. What we were protecting, we didn't realize would endanger anyone's lives but our own. I was so stupid." She closed her eyes again, against the guilt and the grief, until Julia's hand fell on her arm.

"Monica," she said softly. There was so much she wanted to say, but she could not find the words. "Let's go to the chapel for a minute."

It was dusty and neglected, cobwebs in the corners, and strangely cold. Julia took up a candle and a box of matches, blowing the dust off of them, and lit the candle. She crossed herself and began to pray silently, while Monica looked on. She had not been in here since she'd come back, though she had taken a glance at it once or twice. When she was ready, she told herself again and again, but she never seemed ready enough to walk in here. Her eyes closed again as she fell into memories of her mother.

"Monica."

She opened her eyes, but saw her cousin still at prayer. No one else was there with them. "Mama?" she mouthed, hoping to see her, if only for a second, as at her wedding, but there was nothing, just an uneasiness in her heart. She stepped outside and sat on the step, waiting for Julia to finish.

"You never were one for praying," said Julia when she found her cousin outside.

"No, not really. It is calming and restorative in its own way, but ultimately an exercise in futility."

"Sometimes it is a way to speak to those who have left us, even if you don't believe they can really hear us. I just wanted to thank God for giving her to us for as long as he did, and to thank Him for letting her see you before she died. I only wish she could have met her grandchild. But she knows, Monica, she is looking down on you, watching out for her granddaughter. She's here now, I'm sure of it."

Monica looked up with a smile of thanks and they headed back inside together.

At dinner, Esteban mentioned that he wanted to throw a little party following John and Monica's legal marriage.

"Papa, no," implored Monica. "Really, it's nothing big, just signing some papers, that's all. It's not worth a party. Our real marriage was years ago."

"I know, and we all missed that one, unfortunately. Let a father have a few people over to celebrate."

"Please, Papa, I don't want to make a big deal out of it."

"Mon," said John, "it's just a few people. It'll be fine."

"You don't know what he means by 'a few people.' A few hundred people might be closer."

"I promise we will keep it just family."

John looked at her to show that he didn't mind. She shook her head. "He still means at least a hundred."

"We could have the papers signed here, at the house, so that everyone can witness it."

"See, now he's getting closer to the actual figure by saying 'everyone.'"

"Monica's protests aside," said Julia, "I think it's a wonderful idea. Everyone does want to see you. And they'll love getting to witness such an event. You know, Tio, we could really do this properly, get Monica into a dress, a tux for John, a cute little dress for the baby."

"I just want to sign the papers and continue on with my life. It's not going to change anything for us."

"No," Julia said, her tone sharper and more decisive, "this isn't about you right now. This is about your family wanting to celebrate an important part of your life with you, one that we regrettably could not attend the first time around. You need to let us do this. Think of it as a welcome home party, if you must."

The family was quiet, even the little ones, all eyes looking at Monica to see if she would continue to fight it. Her shoulder sank and she looked at them with resigning eyes.

"Excellent," said Esteban. "We will plan for something soon. How close are you to meeting all the requirements?"

"We filed the paperwork last week, right after John's visa came through. They said they would try to get it to us by the end of the month."

"Then we celebrate on Saturday, June seventh."

"Papa," said Monica with a smile, "you do realize that you will never get such a grand party together in such a short amount of time."

"You think I am not up to a challenge such as that?"

"I'm hoping not. Just try to keep it small and simple, for me?"

He patted her hand and smiled.

Upstairs, Gibson's heart raced. A huge family event meant that he could not stay for the marriage. He had intended to fake his death soon after, but now he realized it would be best to do it before. In less than three weeks he would be gone.

After the family had left, and he was finally freed from the confines of bedroom, he broke the news to them. John seemed fine, but Monica still hated the idea. There was so much to do, though, that it mattered little what they thought.

Shannon was called in, for she had the mysterious connections that they would need to pull it off. Gibson bought a motorcycle with the money Monica had taken in Durango, and she fretted over him to no end. She did not care that he was twenty, an adult. She didn't want to hear about riding cross-country on the back of Craig's motorbike when he was fourteen, or the times in the desert when Craig had let him drive it all by himself. She didn't care that he felt perfectly safe using this form of transportation. Instead, she made him promise to wear a helmet, and quizzed him constantly on her father's telephone number, all the while begging him, mentally and verbally, to change his mind. She begged him to send her an email once a week, letting her know he was safe, something even John approved of, but he refused. "I have to disappear entirely, or they won't believe it."


	66. Chapter 66

He wrote up an obituary, which Shannon promised to send to all the major papers and periodicals. "Gibson Praise, former chess prodigy, passed away at the age of twenty. It has been ten years since this brilliant child stunned the world with a series of defeats against well known chess masters. In 1998, he survived the assassination of Russian chess master Anatoly Veslovsky, a traumatic event that was soon followed by the untimely death of his parents in a car accident in their home town of Pasay in the Philippines. Young Praise disappeared from the world stage after that, eventually moving with his legal guardians to Mexico. The once tiny and adorable child who stole the world's heart never seemed to escape tragedy, and was ultimately killed in a freak fire. His remains are to be interred with his parents' in Connecticut. He is preceded in death by his parents, Helen and Mitchell Praise, and grandparents Lois and Thomas Praise, and Alice and George Hendricks."

"Perfect," said Shannon, reading over the copy. "Now, for the accident. Fire, it looks like you've decided."

Gibson shook his head. "Radiation."

Four pairs of eyes turned to him.

"You trying to make this out like I think you are?" asked John.

"If I die in a way that only certain beings can kill me, then it will be more believable. If I die by a gunshot or a regular fire, then it looks more like it was faked. So, can you do that? Can you find a body similar to mine and irradiate it?"

"I think that can be arranged, though I can't promise it will be easy."

But sure enough, by the end of the day, she returned and said it would be taken care of. Gibson packed his bag. Monica gave him far more money than he needed. Under cover of darkness, Shannon brought in the body, hidden inside a black body bag and set it out in the backyard. They needed witnesses of a sort, someone to notice the bright flash of light, but not to witness the actual event. "The body's not warm, but it should do. Once this address is called in, it will be intersected and only the most trusted people will be sent over. I doubt a lot of questions will be asked. But you might want to look upset."

It wasn't hard for Monica to look upset. She did not protest or try to dissuade him from leaving, but accepted it with tears in her eyes. She feared for him and when she hugged him goodbye, she did not let go until John put his hand on her shoulder.

"Be back by Christmas, ok?" he said, shaking the young man's hand.

"Yes, sir."

He hid himself in the back of Shannon's car, for she would take him to the spot where his bike was hidden. When she left, she made sure to stop and speak to the guards, identifying herself as DOJ, and warning them to keep a closer eye than usual on the house. "There are new threats on the young man's life," she said. "If you see any suspicious activity at all, do not hesitate to call someone in."

They waited an hour and then John set off the blinding flare that Shannon had given him. The guards rushed in. Monica stood in her pajamas, holding a screaming child, whom she had woken up abruptly for this very reason, watching mutely as the events unfolded. The call for help was filtered, as expected, and the crew who arrived were obviously not from the local EMT service, but from the government. They quickly zipped the body back up into a bad and hauled it out, promising that everything would be handled discretely. An hour and a half later came a middle-of-the-night call from the ambassador, who could barely curb his fury and promised justice that could never be given, all the while offering up apologies for not doing more. They settled down for the night, the house feeling significantly emptier to some of its occupants.

He was gone, and they had yet another huge event to weather. Vera wanted to know constantly when he would return, and Monica tried her best to ignore the anxiety she felt whenever she imagined him out there, alone and somewhat defenseless. The faked autopsy results arrived – death by extreme heat of unknown origin. Positive ID was given to Gibson Andrew Praise based on dental records. The body was cremated, its ashes given to John and Monica. They would take it with them later in the summer when they returned to deal with legal matters that could not be handled in Mexico.

Monica continued to protest against having another wedding, but no one seemed to be on her side. Her father and Julia wanted to celebrate, and her husband thought it would be a good distraction. "It's silly," she would say. "All this hoopla for something we did years ago. I felt so foolish trying on those wedding gowns with Julia." She snuggled closer to her husband. "Part of me wants to just fly away again, go back to the FBI, go back to how things were six years ago."

"Well, things aren't like what they were six years ago. And we're not going back. We're gonna stay here, and you're gonna get that job, and Vera's gonna grow up with a whole mess of relatives, and we're gonna be happy. And in two weeks, we're gonna get legally married, and I bet by then, you'll be excited."

She shrugged and gave him a peck on the lips. "I'll try."

"I hope so. You're kinda hurting my feelings not wanting to get married."

"We are married," she sighed.

"Well, then, I'm hurt that you don't want to show that to your family." He wanted to tell her that she was being frustrating and he wanted to force her to comply, but neither of these things were within his power. He rested his forehead against hers. "Don't forget, Mon, that you're the best thing that's happened to me and that I love you and will never stop loving you. So don't blame me that I want to tell the whole world how much I love you."

"I know."

After a several seconds of silence, he could not bear it any longer. "Don't you love me too?"

"Of course I do. I love you very much. You know that."

"Dammit, Monica, if Gibson were here right now, I'd go get him and pay him every penny I've got to know what's going on in your head. I know that what happened to you in Durango was horrific, but what you saw there wasn't anything worse than what you saw at the Bureau."

"A man was tortured and murdered in front of me. They don't teach you that at the Bureau. But…" She couldn't find the words and he felt her body slump a little.

"But?" He brushed her hair behind her ears a few times, trying to get her to look at him. "Monica, talk to me. It's been two months. Tell me what's bothering you so I can try to fix it."

"No, it's been two years."

"What do you mean?"

"Since we learned about colonization."

He thought back to the night before she was taken, to the moment in the bathroom where he watched her spirits dissolve at the thought of the invasion. It was a topic that they rarely ever had the heart to discuss. "Trust me, if I could fix that one, I would."

"It's hard for me to be happy and carefree in my family's presence, when I look at them and realize they will all probably be dead in a matter of years. And they don't have any clue. And they will all suffer and die painful deaths and I don't know if that Huichol man was lucky because he was tortured and killed by a drug cartel rather than aliens."

They lay there in silence for several more minutes, John wishing he could do more to help her than stroking her arm and holding her.

"John?"

"Mmhm?"

"What if we tried to do something? Something to stop colonization?"

"What in the world could we possibly do?"

"I'm not sure, exactly. But we could at least try. You know how Spender was part of something called the Syndicate? What if we tried to form an anti-Syndicate? Or at least bring together all those who are actively trying to prevent colonization? Remember, Shannon once told us that there were groups and individuals all over the world who knew what was going on. Maybe it's time to bring them together."

"The Syndicate worked together for over fifty years. I'm not sure what we can expect slapping together something at the last minute."

"But it's not really the last minute… if the people already exist and already have worked on this, then all that needs to be done is bringing them together."

"How are we going to find them all?"

"We start by making a list. Everyone we know who can help, regardless of their situation – Mulder, Dana, Skinner, Shannon. And then branch out and see who they know. Create a network."

"Yeah, I guess we could try something like that."

"I think we should keep it under wraps for now… just between us. Mulder always said, trust no one. But there are three people that I trust implicitly – you, my father, and Gibson. But Gib is gone and I don't want to involve my father in this, at least not yet, not till we know what we've got to work with."

"How long have you been chewing this over? This the reason you want me to get myself into the government?"

"It would be helpful. It would not only put you in touch with people you might not otherwise be able to meet, but it would give you greater power and authority."

"Here I was, thinking you were just forcing me to get involved so I wouldn't retreat or try and drag you out of it. Didn't realize you were scheming all this time about something bigger."

"I don't plan on going down without a fight."

As John and Monica were openly planning their wedding and secretly planning to defeat colonization, Gibson was roaming through Mexico. It had taken him a little while to get the handle of the bike, but by the third day he felt like a pro, except for being a bit saddle sore and once toppling over on a slow turn. But there was nothing better than riding out on a long stretch of road, with little between him and the wind and the sun. John had given him a copy of The Motorcycle Diaries, which he'd already devoured during the first night of his trip.

The first place he headed to, and he took his time because he knew it was foolish and juvenile, was western Mexico, to the small town where John and Monica had married. Lourdes. Four years and she'd certainly occupied his mind and given him much relief many a late night. He drove through the town they'd lived in those few days and surprised himself at how well he remembered the route to the little village. But when he arrived, he found it deserted. He parked the bike and walked through the dilapidated shacks until he came to the donkey enclosure, and couldn't help but laugh at his sixteen-year-old self. At the next village over, he asked about the villagers but no one seemed to care or know. He was disappointed, but reality said that even were she there, he would have found her married with children.

He found what he needed most further east, in Chiapas. Whores were easy to find anywhere, especially when one could read minds. He would have to be careful with his money, because if he took one every time he wanted, he would be broke in a month. But the first night, he decided he should be allowed to live it up. Inside a lively club, he ordered a beer and looked and listened, trying to find someone who would work. And when he did, he bought another beer – the special – which ran about 400 pesos, and came with a room and a woman who called herself Immaculada, though her real name was Maria. She was pretty, prettier than he thought he could afford, and had been at the business long enough to no longer care what her clientele looked like. She knew it was his first time paying, but she also assumed it was his first time in general, considering how quickly it was over. But she was his all night, and he definitely took advantage of his purchase, until after a short nap, just before his time was up, he started to really get the hang of it. He didn't need her to instruct him, for he just followed what was in her head. She certainly wasn't looking for pleasure, and didn't find it in her clients, but the boy who was sweating and groaning in her arms, seemed to be hitting all the right places and she eventually gave up trying to keep a distance from him. She came, as she was paid to, but instead of faking it to make her customer happy, she came for real, not that she would tell him and not that he needed her to admit it.

But his trip wasn't all about sex, though he was glad no one could read his mind and see just how much a part of it his departure was. He was twenty years old now, and aside from a few hours here and there, had never had much in the way of solitude and had certainly never been completely, utterly on his own, with no one to decide his fate or his future. Living with John and Monica hadn't been terrible, but it was less than ideal. He was completely aware that it was his circumstances, it was him and his abilities, that determined his life and how it had had to be lived. They had granted him as much freedom as could be allowed, gave him the closest thing to a normal life that could be managed, and in Monica he had found someone who really understood him – and liked him regardless. He was surprised at how, after just a week on the road, he began to feel homesick for them, but he was determined to keep going, for as long as he could, to hide, to disappear, to lose Gibson Praise.

Giving himself up was also harder than he had planned. He knew Gibson Praise was just a name, and it wasn't even one he had gotten to use so much over the years, but it was the last connection to himself, and to his parents. For now, he was Jonathan Green, not that he had once had to show papers, but sometimes people did ask him his name. In time, he was sure it would begin to roll off his tongue, start to feel more like the man he was becoming.

Back in Mexico, the day before the wedding, John, Monica and Vera headed to the Civil Registry Office. After the clerk handed her to final form that they would need, she stared at it a few seconds, her fingers brushing over their names, their real names, Monica Julietta Reyes, John Jay Doggett. She turned and smiled at him, big, unabashedly.

"Mama looks pretty happy, don't you think?" he asked the toddler in his arms.

She hopped over to his side and grabbed hold of his head, pulling him in for an ecstatic kiss. "John," she said, still beaming, "will you marry me?"

With his free arm, he picked her up and spun her around. She was back and he knew that everything was ok again. "Yes, yes, yes," he said, before kissing her in return.

She was still fighting somewhat against all the traditional elements of a wedding, yet when the day came, she found herself in a long cream colored dress, with a bolero jacket, and a bouquet in her hands. Everything that she had missed on her first wedding day, she had now. Her madrina had seen to her every comfort, and that morning, she had a whole chorus of relatives attending her, all crowded in to her childhood bedroom with her, just like at her quinceañera, but with more people and a daughter of her own who wanted to be in her arms as much as possible.

How her father, madrina, and cousin had managed to pull all of this together on such short notice, she did not know, but she could only sigh as the band started to play in the backyard and some random relative poked her head in to announce that the wedding photographer had arrived. She worried about John, stuck in their bedroom with at least twenty men he hadn't known for longer than a month, most only since that day. But finally her madrina pronounced her ready with congratulatory kisses on the cheeks, and she stepped into the hall, where her husband was already waiting. He wore a suit and tie, and looked very much as he had back when he roamed the hallways of the Hoover Building. Monica could not restrain her smile.

"Are you ready for this?" she whispered to him as they made their way downstairs in a sea of family members.

"This is years overdue. I'm more than ready."

It wasn't a wedding in a traditional sense, for there was no ceremony other than the signing of the document, officiated by one of Esteban's old friends from the Registro Civil. But the ceremony wasn't the reason for the gathering, as one could tell from the live band, the copious amounts of alcohol and food, and the packed house and yard. It was a party, and one that would last for a solid twelve hours. Relatives from both sides of her family congratulated them, bestowing money and presents on them, welcoming them home, some assuming it was for good, some telling them outright they wished it was. Monica had never felt so loved in her life, and she was more than relieved to find that no one held her accountable for her mother's death. She danced until her feet ached in her heels, and she kicked them off and danced until her bare feet hurt as well, laughing and smiling the whole time. As the night wore on, Vera and the other children were tucked away into any free bed space that could be found, until their parents too called it a night and retrieved them.

It was three in the morning before the last group of guests left. Her father bade them goodnight, embracing them both for a long time. They made their way upstairs, stopping to check on their daughter, tucked into her mother's old bed, completely wiped out from the party. In their own room, John closed the door and took a deep breath to refresh himself. Monica, however, fell back on the bed heavily.

"John, have you ever been so overwhelmingly tired you didn't even have energy to have sex on your wedding night?" she asked from behind closed eyes.

He laughed, and fell on the bed beside her. "Thank God. I don't think I could possibly love you any more than I do right now. I don't even have the energy to get undressed."

Somehow they did manage to divest themselves of their wedding finery and slip into something more comfortable, but sleep was the only thing they managed to accomplish that night.


	67. Chapter 67

A/N: Not that anyone missed me, but I didn't die! I didn't stop writing! My computer, however, did get a nasty virus and my life, especially for the next two weeks, has been and will continue to be more and more chaotic. I'll write and post what I can for now, and I promise that the next two x-filey chapters are swirling around in my head with all kinds of suggestions, begging to be written. But the next two weeks are probably going to be on the lighter side till I have time again for things like sleeping and cooking food to eat.

* * *

Summer waxed on. Monica accepted a job with the Center for Victims of Drug Violence. Vera turned three, and event that was celebrated with another large party and piñatas for all the children. John learned how to be a househusband, taking care of his daughter when she wasn't at daycare, and keeping Esteban company.

The old man began to speak candidly to John about colonization. "A man cannot keep such a burdensome secret in his breast for this many years. And while I may not even live to see the events unfold, but my daughter and granddaughter will, and it pains me to think of their suffering." So, with that, Monica's father joined in to their secret efforts, even though his knowledge and contacts were only of the vaguest sort.

In August, after all their paperwork was finally in order and they could once again travel without difficulty from Mexico to the U.S., they flew to New York to begin sorting out matters Stateside. There were papers to be signed and keys to be retrieved from Barbara's lawyer, and they had to make a side trip to Connecticut to inter the ashes of the unknown man whose remains were filling in for Gibson.

After the small ceremony, they headed to Long Island. It was where they had met, fifteen years earlier, though the circumstances of that dark day were enough to warrant them never making note of the town's importance in their lives. They did not drive past the home where they had first shaken hands, a home that Barbara had sold at some point in the last few years. They did not tell their daughter that her brother had grown up here.

At the lawyer's office, John sat inside, working on alimony matters and details over the payment for the storage unit, while Monica stayed out in the hall with Vera who was too wound up from all the traveling to stay quiet. They sat in the waiting area, playing with a bead toy. Monica felt a shiver go through her body and turned around. Barbara was standing there, watching, silently.

She didn't know what to do. They had never had a rapport with one another, never learned each other's personalities, and hadn't had any contact with each other since the Regali business, during which they hadn't even spoken a word to one another. Monica didn't know how Barbara would feel, seeing her ex-husband's new wife and child. She imagined it must be painful. She gave a welcoming but cautious smile.

"They told me you were here," said Barbara, with an unmoving face. "I guess I wasn't quite prepared for the child."

Monica softened her smile with sympathy. "She took us by surprise as well."

"She takes after John. I can even see some of Luke in her."

Vera was watching the interaction intensely. "Luke is my brother," she said, just in case the woman didn't know.

"Yes, he was your half-brother," said Barbara.

Vera furrowed her brow. She did not understand the use of past tense when talking about Luke – death was still an unknown to her, and her parents often spoke of him in the present tense as if he were still around. She also had never heard the term half-brother.

Monica stood up and took her daughter's hand, pulling her a few steps closer. "Vera, this is Barbara. She's Luke's mother. Can you say hello?"

She did as she was told. She furrowed her brow again. "Who is Luke's daddy?"

Monica knelt in front of her again. "Your daddy is Luke's daddy. He just has a different mom. That's why he's your half-brother and not your full brother." Monica looked up at Barbara. "I think she's still a bit too young to understand all that. Luke is just a boy in a photograph to her." Monica looked at her daughter, smiling at her and patting her head lovingly before standing again. "I wanted to thank you for saving John's things. Mine too. But especially John's. We'll be able to show her pictures of Luke, and maybe things will make more sense to her. I want her to know who Luke was, and it will help her understand her father."

Barbara nodded, and stood rooted in her spot, as though there was more she wanted to say. Monica let her have her silence. "The boy that you took…?" she finally asked nervously.

"Gibson?"

"I was wondering… I read an article in People, about a boy… he was the chess prodigy? Was that the boy you took?"

"Yes, that was Gibson. We were protecting him."

"I thought… all these years, that maybe John really had taken him for the wrong reasons. That's what they told me after you two left. They called, they told me there might be a connection, and they wanted to know all the places connected to Luke, in case John had taken the boy there. But it still didn't seem like something John would do. And then they told me you had fled too… and then I realized that there must be much more to it."

"There was."

"I'm sorry about what happened to Gibson. It must be very hard for John."

"Yes, it was hard for all of us."

"I miss Gibson," said Vera, trying her best to follow the conversation. "I want him to come home."

Barbara hesitated and looked around. "Is John with the lawyer?"

"Yes. Did you need to be in that meeting?"

"No, not really. I think I've already taken care of most everything, though I'll have to review whatever the decisions are that John makes. It's just… I asked them to tell me when you came in. I… I wanted to..." She looked at the floor for a second. "Mainly curiosity… I wanted to see that John was ok, and to know that things had worked out between you two. Which I suppose they did," she said, casually throwing her hand in the direction of the child.

It was news to Monica that Barbara felt anything but animosity towards her. Her uncertainty showed on her face.

"He's a good man, Monica, and I'm glad that he found you. I'm glad that he came to his senses."

"That's very… magnanimous of you."

"Not really. Not at this point in my life. I've remarried."

"Congratulations." She added some hope to her smile, but she still wasn't sure of Barbara's motivation.

"How is John? Now?"

"He's well."

"Is he happier?"

It was a hard question to answer, not because there wasn't an easy answer, but because Monica did not want to upset Barbara. "I think so," she finally answered.

"You always had the patience for him that I never did."

"Barbara, I…"

"No, it's true. And I'm sorry, for how I treated you."

"You don't have to apologize. I was the one who could have handled things better."

"Even then I knew that you were better suited to him. I saw how you managed him, his moods, his tempers, his obsessions. I had no right to hate you for the mere fact that you were what he needed, not me."

"Barbara," said Monica, in a pleading voice. The conversation had turned into something very unpleasant, a competition of sorts, and Monica never wanted to be in that position. "He loved you, he really did. We're all just in a different place in our lives."

A smile of sorts and a sound almost like a laugh came from her husband's ex-wife. "I'm not worried about that, Monica. I understand that. I ended my relationship with John. Don't think that I hold any resentment towards you."

"But you blamed me…?"

"Like I said, I'm sorry for how I treated you. I said things to you and John back then that were totally unfair and untrue. I was angry, I was hurting. I attacked him where I knew it would hurt the most. I attacked his honor."

Monica nodded. "I still wish things could have been better. Between us all. But I thank you for your apology."

"I don't know that we'll ever be friends, or even have a reason to be in contact again, but at least we can go to our graves without there being bad blood between us."

The thought of death and the knowledge that it might come in a handful of years for them both swept over Monica and she suddenly closed the space in between them and hugged the woman whom she'd never expected to offer an olive branch. Barbara returned the hug stiffly.

"Thank you," said Monica when they pulled apart.

At that moment, John emerged with the lawyer and slowed his step at the sight of the two women. He feared the worst, that he had stepped into an open argument between the two, for he remembered how many heated fights there had been with Barbara about Monica's presence in his life. But then Monica smiled and Barbara offered up an expression that looked less pained and annoyed than usual, and he realized that they were ok. His child reached for him when he took his place beside his wife, and he held his daughter in his arms, nervously.

"How ya doing, Barb? You look good," he said, as he had always said when seeing her.

"I'm well, John, thank you. Yourself?"

"Good, I'm good."

They stood around awkwardly, neither one sure of what to say next.

Monica looked at them and realized she would need to step in or else Barbara's attempt at a peace offering would be forgotten. "I'm glad we can thank you in person for arranging the storage unit. We'll be able to show Vera pictures of Luke so that she can really get to know him. She's old enough now that Dia de los Muertos will probably start making more sense to her."

John ran his hand over his daughter's hair and then pulled her forehead to his lips for a kiss. "Yeah, that means a lot to me that you would do that. Thanks, Barb. Really."

"I'm glad that she knows who Luke was."

"We never forget him. His memory is a part of our lives."


	68. Chapter 68

I'm not dead and the story hasn't stopped! But life got horrendously busy and I had to give up things like writing and sleeping and cooking. But it's all over now, and as an added bonus, my new schedule at work includes hour-long lunch breaks, which are perfect for writing! Yay! There will definitely be more next Sunday, including the start of a new X-filey chapter!

* * *

A few days after their return, in the middle of the night, they were awoken by a scream from across the hall. Vera often cried in her sleep – the transition to her own bed and room had not been an easy one – and she regularly slipped into their bed, sometimes without their realizing it for hours. But her scream was nothing like her whimpering cries, and Monica bounded out of bed and ran to her daughter. The child wrapped her arms tightly around her mother's neck and sobbed as Monica rubbed her back and tried to calm her down.

"Sadie wouldn't wake up," she finally was able to explain, and Monica felt her heart drop.

The dog, who had been old when they found her, was now ancient. The last couple of months had seen her decline rapidly, to the point where she was no longer able to move without great effort. John was grateful he had not yet found a job, for it meant he could be with her and help her outside. Her once-broken leg now gave her great pain, though the vet he'd taken her to could not do more than advise she be put down and prescribe painkillers when John refused.

"I can't put her down just 'cause she's old. The vet said she was fine otherwise. The pain pills help. She's still happy when she sees me."

It had been hard for him to leave her during their trip to the States, but Esteban had promised to take good care of her. But when the returned, it was apparent that Sadie didn't have much time left. John stayed by her side for hours every single day, just petting her and talking to her – saying his goodbyes.

But now as her child explained a dream in which she tried to play with the dog and the dog refused to obey or even move, Monica knew that Sadie's time had come. She took Vera in her arms and walked back to her room.

"She ok?" asked John.

"You need to go check on Sadie."

Without a word, he got out of bed and trod downstairs. There, on her mat, lay his dog, who didn't even move when he called her name.

He knelt by her side, tears already streaming from his eyes. He put a hand on her soft head and breathed out suddenly when her eyes fluttered open. Still, he knew this was it. He knew she would be gone very soon. She closed her eyes again.

John lay out beside her and did the only thing he could in her final moments – he ran his hand down her body, slowly, comfortingly. He choked out a few words, "Good girl, Sadie. You were always a good girl," and then he was consumed by his tears again.

Her breathing eventually slowed until it stopped, and he kissed her soft head one last time. There was nothing more he could do other than sit there and look at this dog he'd only known for two years, who'd saved his daughter's life, and been his dependable companion since the day he'd rescued her from the side of the road.

Monica came downstairs as the first hint of dawn showed in the sky. She sat next to her husband, taking his hand in hers. "Did you get to say goodbye?"

He nodded, and she ran her hand over his head, pulling him towards her for a kiss, and sat with him until the rest of the household had awoken for the day.

They buried her in the backyard, wrapped in a wool blanket, with some of her favorite toys. All three members of the Doggett family found themselves in tears, and even Esteban would not keep a couple of tears from running down his own cheeks.

Vera had a million questions now about death, and it fell to Monica to answer them, which she preferred. John was still so cut and dry when he explained things, as though he were trying to convince himself of everything he'd once believed. He held his unexplainable memories of Luke too close to heart to use them as lessons. Had their daughter asked him about what had happened to Sadie and where she was now, he would have told her bluntly that Sadie was dead, and her body was buried in the backyard, and could we drop the subject now, thank you.

Now that Vera was getting older and starting to understand more complicated subjects, it was possible for Monica to start passing down her own beliefs. She took her outside one calm afternoon and into the little chapel, where she'd never taken her daughter before. Vera watched attentively as her mother lit a candle and placed it before a painting of the Madonna. A lifetime in Mexico, even a lifetime of only three years, had exposed her to a great deal of Catholicism and she already knew that the Madonna was Mary, and that Mary was the mother of Jesus, who was sometimes a little baby and sometimes a sad man on a cross. The other picture at the altar was the older Jesus, though he was not on a cross, but looked just as sad.

"This was Abuelita's chapel," said Monica, sitting down on the front pew and pulling Vera onto her lap. "She came here every morning and evening to pray. And those little candles there," she said, pointing to the basket of tea candles, "are for prayers."

"For when you talk to Mary and Jesus?" She had actually been over this not too long before with her Tia Julia, who had taken her to Mass the last time they'd gone to visit.

"For some people, yes. Sometimes, it's just a nice way to remember people who are gone. It helps when you're sad or when you miss someone. Like right now I miss Abuelita very much. This chapel was very special to her, so it's easy to remember her in here. And when I light the candle, it shows how much I miss her."

"Because she's gone?"

"Yes. Like Sadie's gone now."

Vera's brows knitted together, and she looked outside the door, though she could not see the spot where Sadie had been buried.

"Is Abuelita in the ground too?"

"Her body is buried in a cemetery, and we can go visit it sometime, if you like. But her soul is still here. Sometimes, if you close your eyes and concentrate really hard, you can feel her. She might say your name or maybe you'll even be able to see her."

Vera clenched her eyes shut and concentrated for as long as she could, which was only a handful of seconds. "I didn't hear anything."

"I know. It takes time, and sometimes you have to feel a certain way too. When I married your father, for a second, I saw her there, and then I knew that she was still with me, even though her body was gone."

Vera looked at the flickering flame. "Can you light a candle for Sadie? I miss her."

"Sure, we'll light one together." She knew it was sacrilegious and her mother would certainly not approve, but she did it anyway, throwing a challenging smile up towards the heavens.

"Can we light one for Gibson?" Vera's question frightened Monica for a second, because of the portent of the day before with Sadie. They had not heard from Gibson even once, and she worried every day that something would go wrong.

"Gibson's not dead. He'll be back in a few months. He's riding his motorcycle all over Mexico, remember?"

"But I miss him."

"I know. I miss him too. We can light a candle for him too, and perhaps he'll know how much we miss him and it will make him hurry back home."

She helped her light the candles and instructed her to think as hard as she could about Sadie and then Gibson, so that her feelings might reach them.

"I want you to know, V, that even if someone goes away, they are never really gone. Luke and Abuelita are dead, but their souls are still here, ok?"

Vera didn't really understand the soul business, but she nodded regardless. Understanding death was still beyond her, but she did like the idea that no one really left, even if it felt like they did.

On a bright September morning, a couple weeks later, Monica helped Vera into a pair of beige shorts and a simple blue polo shirt with the name of the school she would be attending stitched into it. As she parted and braided her hair, she told her of all the fun things she could expect at school. Any shyness that Vera had developed in her infancy, during a life on the run, never getting to connect with anyone outside of her parents and Gibson, had completely disappeared. Strangers did not frighten her, her tongue no longer froze in their presence, and she seemed truly excited to be thrown into a room full of children her own age, though she did pout a little when it was explained to her that her favorite cousins would not also be joining her.

Monica took a moment to look at her daughter, who looked very much a little girl and much less a toddler now, sitting so still and sure at the seat in front of the vanity. She thought back to those first few weeks after her birth, when she would cradle her in her arms, in awe of her tiny features, in awe that something so perfect had been created inside of her. She still carried that awe, especially in these moments, seeing the girl who had once been a tiny fleck inside of her. She thought of the girl in her vision, not much older than the one who sat before her with questioning eyes, the girl who held herself with such poise and certainty – she could see traces of that girl now in the child before her.

"One day, Vera," she said, kneeling before the child and touching her braids tenderly, "You will find William." Monica was now very certain that the boy in the vision, the one that she could not see clearly, must be the child whose birth she'd overseen. "You're a very important little girl. Don't ever forget that."

"I know." She didn't actually understand her destiny, but since the retrieval of her parents' photos, she'd been introduced to the young boy, and with it, her mother's belief that she would somehow be responsible for finding him.

Vera also did not yet understand the difference between the two boys in the photographs. One was Luke, whom her parents called her brother. One was William, who was just a friend. Both boys were seven, though William was seven and just a baby, and Luke was seven and a big boy. Both boys were far away somewhere, but only William would one day come back, because Luke was dead and only his soul was still around.

"Is William in school?"

"Probably. I think he should be starting second grade this year."

"And Luke?"

"When he was a little boy, yes, he went to school too."

"But not now."

"No. Luke's gone now."

"William's gone too."

"William's not gone forever, but Luke is."

"Yes, his body is gone forever."

They had had this conversation a lot since the chapel lesson, and there wasn't anything to be done other than wait for the day the child would be old enough to fully comprehend.

"Let's go downstairs and see what Daddy made for breakfast, ok? And we can show him what a big girl you are now in your school uniform."

After some celebrating and admiring, John presented his daughter a plate of pancakes, explaining that this was the very thing he'd made for Luke before his first day of kindergarten.

"What did William have for breakfast on his first day?" she asked, using her hand to pin a section of pancake to her fork.

She missed the look her father gave her mother. Monica didn't, but returned one of her own. William had become a sensitive topic. John still did not have patience for Monica's vision, even after all this time. He believed that she'd seen something, just as he had, but he hated how she had decided that their child would find William, and how she was prepping their daughter for such a monumental – and impossible – task.

"We don't know what he ate. Maybe he had pancakes too."

"When I find him, can we have more pancakes?"

"Of course. Keep eating, school starts soon." The child complied and was soon escorted off to the neighborhood school, showing no fear and plenty of enthusiasm.

"You need to stop talking to her about William," John said when they'd returned.

"It's her destiny."

"Maybe, maybe not. And if it is, then she'll fulfill it. Right now, it's just going to make her sound nuts."

"She's three, John. Half the stuff she says is still nonsensical. Do you think people look at her and assume she's schizophrenic because she talks to Mikey? No one will notice. They'll chalk it up to her being three."

Her imaginary friend, Mikey, had come about over the summer, when Vera had finally grown accustomed to her new life, and after the introduction to the concept that there were two boys in her life that she didn't actually know outside of pictures. She needed a way to make them real, Monica had explained to John, and therefore she'd created this boy, the same age as the two other boys. She had several photographs in her room now, but the three she liked most were the one of Luke, the one of William, and the one of her and Gibson, just before he'd left. Attached to the wall near those three photos was a fairly decent drawing, composed of circles and lines, was her portrait of Mikey, the boy who rode his bike and climbed trees and played baseball and did everything else the little boys in her books liked to do.

John was willing to put up with such a fantasy, because Vera was his little girl after all, but he did what he could to ground her in reality. But without fail, a story about Luke would somehow get sucked into her latest tale of Mikey's adventures. He would try to correct her, but Monica was always quick to put a warning hand on his arm. "She's just trying to visualize it, John. Let her do that however she needs to."

Their return, which had been a relief at first, was now proving to be more difficult. Arguments before were capped quickly, for there were usually more important things to worry about. Now the tedium of normal life did nothing to squelch disagreements. Gibson's departure had thrown off the delicate balance of their relationship – he'd been a part of their life since before their first kiss. Monica worried about him constantly, though she wouldn't talk about it, and even John had to admit to himself that he thought often about the young man whom they'd helped raise over the last six years.

Where once they'd been concerned with mere survival, they now had to worry about school tuition and daily commutes through the hopelessly mired streets of Mexico City, grocery bills and the piddling red tape they still had to deal with. It was almost enough to make them yearn for the simpler, though more stressful times of life on the run.

Vera's age was also factoring in. No longer was she a baby whose needs were simple and easy to agree upon. Now she was old enough to attend school, which had led to arguments, for John thought she was much too young to be essentially on her own (i.e. – not under their watchful eyes) and Monica insisted that she needed not only a place to learn social skills, but she was much too bright to be kept out of school and kept under lock and key at home. Besides, she'd stated, it was just how things were in Mexico – children started school early.

Disciplining her was harder too without Gibson to interpret her moods and needs when she could not, and they were often all three at a loss. Who knew now whether she was throwing a tantrum because she was upset or because she was being naughty? John and Monica did not always see eye to eye in such situations, and were finding their methods of dealing with their daughter to be more different than they'd ever realized. Monica, from having spent nearly every moment next to her daughter from her birth until the kidnapping, had developed great patience for the child, along with a fairly strict method of dealing with her, something that she'd never anticipated in herself. John was both quicker to judge her actions worth punishing, and quicker to relax the punishments as soon as he saw those sad blue eyes look up at him. Vera learned that early and was often using her father to undermine her mother, unaware of how much stress it was putting on her parents.

Finances were difficult. Monica still would not touch the drug money, though she did allow a large portion to go to Gibson for his travels. When John tried to use it to pay for Vera's tuition, her eyes turned black with anger, something he rarely witnessed, and she said she would rather beg on the street for the money rather than let her daughter be fed, clothed or educated by such funds. John backed down quickly and the money was locked up in the safe. When the world was under attack, perhaps it would be of use, but for now, he did not need to risk his wife's anger or dark moods. Instead, Esteban stepped in, time and time again, paying for the necessities, meaning that John had to swallow his pride during almost every purchase of food or clothes.

He had had no luck as yet in getting into a job with the Mexican government. Esteban had tried is connections, but they were mostly older and many were retired or dead by now. The younger crowd seemed to have no need for an American with less than perfect Spanish and a terrible accent. He felt many times that he had made a decent connection with someone, as soon as he made a follow-up call, he was given the brush off. "I feel like I've been blacklisted," he told Monica, and she agreed. She couldn't think of a single reason why her husband could not find a suitable job in any sector of the government and her frustration was growing high. Her own job was part-time, and barely paid a living wage for one person, much less three. Her father would often refuse her attempts to help with bills, and so she found herself often slipping money into the housekeeper's hands to pick up food or sundries.


	69. Chapter 69

Vera's dream about Sadie sparked another argument two months after the fact. Monica had wanted to talk about it, but the one time she'd casually brought up the subject, John's mood was immediately icy and she'd quickly backed down. But now there was a considerable amount of time since the dream, and she casually brought it up as they were getting ready for bed.

"I think she's got a gift. Second sight, perhaps."

John gave her his best skeptical look and then turned away.

"She knew even before we found Sadie. She told us when she was just a baby."

"We've been over this before. She said one word. She didn't even understand what we were talking about. And that dream she had the other night was just a nightmare. It wasn't her first nightmare, and it won't be her last. I don't want you to go dissecting every single dream she has looking for deeper meaning. You need to quit confusing coincidence with something more."

He had busied himself as he talked, and only looked at her when nothing but silence fell.

"What, Monica? What?" he asked, with great exasperation.

"The things you've seen, the things that have happened to us, your own visions," she said in a low voice, "how do you manage to convince yourself that none of that has ever happened? Is there some sort of expiration date, some point where you get to go back to being your old, skeptical self?"

"Jesus!" he responded in a hushed whisper. "Is there nothing you won't believe? We had plenty of cases that were explained away in half an hour by hard science and good investigating. Yet you approach everything in our lives as if it were a bona fide X-file."

"The X-files came around long after unexplained phenomena came into our lives. I've been telling you for almost as long as we've known each other that I feel things, that I know things. I thought you'd finally come to accept it, but now I see you haven't. And now it's impossible for you to believe our daughter might have inherited that from me as well."

"I want you to stop filling her head with nonsense. Just let her be a kid. I know you're keeping a dream journal with her. It's hardly a secret. But it's a bunch of garbage, and it belongs in the garbage and it's only gonna lead her to thinking she's more than she is."

Monica's chest rose and fell as she tried to control her breathing and not give into her desire to scream. "She _is_ special, John. She plays a part in this. You know it. You saw it."

"Can we drop the subject? It's late, and I'd like to get some sleep." He sat heavily in the bed, whipping the sheets back over him.

"No. You need to accept that she has a gift. I lived in this house for over a decade before anyone finally decided to listen to me. I'm not going to let that happen to my daughter. If it's nurtured, perhaps it can grow into something greater."

"She's a perfectly normal little girl. Quit projecting onto her."

"I'm not projecting. I recognize parts of me in her."

"Fine, you wanna raise her to be a nutcase like yourself, go right ahead," he said, and turned over, signaling the end of his participation in the conversation.

She stood there a second, staring at the lump in the bed, and felt the tears rising. She wanted to slam the door or scream at him, but it was nighttime and it wasn't even their home. Instead, she turned around and left the room, heading to the kitchen for a glass of water and a secluded place to cry.

_Who are you?_ she wondered. _What the hell happened to the man I married, to the man I've lived with for six years? How can you deny everything that you know to be true?_ She gritted her teeth and let out a muffled shriek of frustration.

"Monica?" came her father's voice from the living room.

"I'm sorry, Papa. I didn't realize you were down here." She started to fill up her water glass.

"Come sit with me, mi ija."

She wiped away her tears hurriedly and came into the dark living room, taking a seat near her father.

"Are you ok?" she asked him, for it was not in his nature to sit alone in the dark.

"Nights are always the hardest," he said, and she knew he was talking about her mother. In the dim glow from outside, he studied his daughter, who reclined in her seat, staring ahead at the empty fireplace, her hands gripped tight around her glass. "Are you ok? You sounded upset."

"I'm fine," she said, in her most reassuring voice. "You don't need to worry about me."

They sat in silence for several minutes before Esteban spoke again. "I remember when you were, how old, twenty-five, twenty-six, you came home for a visit. You and your mother spent the whole day together, and that night, when she came to bed, she told me she was worried about you. 'Monica has got her heart set on some man that she barely knows. And I think he's married.'"

Monica tried to smile at the memory, but her recent argument with John overshadowed any happiness. "I remember. She kept trying to get the details out of me, but I was terrified at admitting that he was separated from his wife. I knew she would tell me to run far away from him, that such a man is only trouble."

"Yes, I seem to recall her saying something of the sort. Many times. I'm glad she was wrong. He's a good man, Monicita, but certainly not the kind of man we would have anticipated you marrying."

She bit her lip and pondered his statement and her own thoughts. "Do you think I made a mistake?" she finally asked.

"No, no. Of course not. Like I said, he's a good man. You should hold tight to him."

She nodded and felt the tears burn her eyes.

"You haven't talked about divorce, have you?" he asked, with concern in his voice.

"No."

"I didn't think so. My guess is also that his first marriage ended not by his choice, but by hers."

"Yes."

"So you do not need to worry about him leaving you. You have only yourself to worry about." He gave her a moment to think. "Your mother and I often talked about how we never thought you would ever settle down, this John character notwithstanding. I'm glad to know that we were wrong."

He caught sight of her surreptitiously wiping away a tear and smiled paternally. "Monica, no marriage is perfect. Every single one has plenty of moments of strife. Every marriage is made of two completely separate people who are trying to function as one unit. Tell me how there could ever be a marriage of constant happiness and balance. Even your mother and I had our fair share of discord."

"I don't know what to do. I'm not going to leave him, and I know he won't leave me, but I don't want things to keep getting worse. I've known for so long that we would be together. I just don't understand why it's all fallen apart so spectacularly."

"I know you probably think of your six years hiding out as the hardest years of your relationship, but I think perhaps the last six months have been. Everything you two have known has shifted. Everything your marriage was built on has vanished."

"I know. It still doesn't make things easier. I'm trying to understand how to make things work in our new situation, but I'm at a loss."

"Maybe you should just try to understand John and let your relationship follow suit."

"I try to understand John, but right now, it's so frustrating. I mean, this is what he wanted – to quit running, to settle down, to raise our family. I understand that it's hard for him to be out of work, and it's hard for him to not have his own home, but those are such little problems. What I don't understand is why he suddenly stopped believing me."

"Believing you?"

"And believing himself. Our visions… Vera… colonization. He knows that I feel things, but he refuses to talk about it, and now he's refusing to believe V might be like me."

"Is this about her dream?"

She nodded.

"It took us a long time to accept it. You just need to give him time."

"I give him time. I've been giving him time for fifteen years, and just when I think he's accepted it, he does a 180 on me."

"I suspect that there is nothing more you can do than to try to find more patience in yourself and forgive him his ways. He's a very rational man, very set in his ways. And just because you were destined for one another does not mean that upon your marriage he miraculously changed his ways. Perhaps the universe has given him to you as a lifetime project," he said, chuckling a little.

Monica didn't laugh. "We don't have a lifetime. At least, not one long enough to accomplish such a task."

"You're very pessimistic tonight. This isn't like you at all."

She rested her head on her hand wearily. "I know. I've changed too. I thought John and I would change in the same direction, but it's not the case."

Her father smiled again, and reached across the divide, laying his cold hand on her arm. "I think you have, but you are both going through such a monumental change that it's hard to see just yet. Give it time, mi ija. You are both strong, sure people, with good hearts, and I know despite all this, you are devoted to one another and to you daughter. Do not feel so despondent."

She nodded and felt only slightly better. There was no resolution for how she should deal with John, but she felt calmer. "You should try to go back to bed, Papa. I'm going to go talk to John, if he's still awake."

"Remember to be patient with him. Remember that he is trying to make sense of this new life just like you are, but his view of the world is very different from yours. That does not mean your path isn't the same." He started to get out of his chair, and Monica jumped up to give him a helping hand. Her father seemed so weary, older than usual.

"Papa, I don't know what I would do without you. It's so hard without Mama."

"I know. She'd be very proud of you, though, seeing you as a wife and a mother, your work with those women, what you did to keep Gibson safe. And I know she would be especially happy that you are here with me, in my final years. Family is so important." He kissed her cheek. "Now, go upstairs and take care of yours."

As soon as John had heard Monica walk away, remorse kicked him hard in the stomach. He didn't know why he snapped at her like that. Sure, she pushed all his buttons. Sure, she did seem crazy to him at times. But it wasn't as if he hadn't known that years ago. And for six years to pass as peacefully as they had, with only those few weeks before Monica knew she was pregnant sticking out as painful reminders of less tranquil days, they were blessed, really. But those terrible weeks had been centered on one problem. The last few months had been constant arguments about everything under the sun. And until tonight, he had never attacked her personally, only her reasoning or ideas.

He slipped out of bed, knowing at the very least he should apologize for calling her a nutcase, even if they could not resolve their current dispute, but when he reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard her speaking with her father. They were too far away for him to hear anything but muffled sounds, but he didn't want to interrupt and so headed back to his room.

He didn't get too far, for out of instinct, he peeked inside Vera's room. She was fast asleep. He stood there for a while, watching her tiny sleeping form in the dark, before finally coming into the room and turning on a lamp. He sat at the end of the bed and stared at her baby face. She looked so perfectly normal to him, so much like her mother with her brown hair and profile. Maybe Monica was right, maybe she did have a gift. John didn't understand how such a thing could be possible, and it was true that he had never fully accepted that Monica sometimes just _knew_ when something was going to happen, even though he'd witnessed it before.

He got up and retrieved the little journal inside the nightstand by his daughter's bed, something he'd never looked at before. The first forty pages were already filled in Monica's handwriting, with a mostly verbatim retelling of a dream from Vera, followed by Monica's interpretation and a blank space at the bottom where some of the dreams were followed up on. There was one page for each day and all of it was written in Spanish.

_September 2, 2008_

"_I dreamed I was riding a horse with Mikey. And there was a snake. I was scared but Mikey picked it up and gave it to me. It was tiny, like a string. I got scared so I dropped it. Mikey laughed. And then I laughed too, because it was just a little baby snake and it only wanted to tell me hello. And then we were inside a house with a million chairs. I jumped on them because they were bouncy. And then I fell off. And then I woke up."_

_Could be literal, could be symbolic. Not sure who Mikey represents in this dream, possibly Gibson, if triggered by real life events – he was always killing scorpions and spiders for her. Snake could signify perceived danger, Mikey could be her protector, and through him she realizes that what she fears is not nearly as threatening as she first thought. Snakes symbolize so many things, it's hard to say which one this is. The chair symbolism is trickier. She says that they were empty. Could be an allusion to post-colonization, empty chairs, empty houses, disappearance of human race. But more likely that it has to do with the chairs in the living room that she just discovered are bouncy when she jumps on them. I believe John even warned her that she would fall and crack her head open._

It seemed so harmless written out like that. Monica was approaching it in such a scholarly manner, John felt another twinge of guilt for his behavior. Why was he getting so bent out of shape? He flipped through to the last entry.

_October 19, 2008_

"_I was at my school. Everyone was really tall, but I was really little. And they could not see me and I was scared they would step on me so I ran really fast. And then I was in the jungle, like in the pictures. And then I found baby William. He was sitting under a tree. He said "Hello Vera!" And then he was gone again. I cried because I lost him. But then I found him. There was a snake all around him. Big snake. And then I got really big. Then the snake was little. So I picked it up with my fingers and threw it far, far away. And then William was ok. [I asked how big William was.] Normal size. Like me. [She could not explain whether William grew to match her or if she shrunk to match him.]"_

_The snake motif is back. Perhaps representing the evil that lies ahead, the aliens? Hard to say, as snakes can mean so much – death and rebirth, mortality, evil, illness, alchemy, medicine, a portal between two worlds, etc. Actions indicate that W might be found and then lost and then found again, both times by V. Second time she saves him from the snake, whatever that ultimately represents. She was not sure who was at the school, but said they were like the nutcrackers in her Christmas book – uniforms might mean possible military? She stood and impersonated them, with her arms pressed flat against her sides. There was no one else in the jungle, other than herself, W, and the snake. Is this a refuge? Her mind might just have used the background from her baby pictures from the jungle as a backdrop for something primitive and secluded. _

John closed the journal a little too quickly but kept it sitting on his knee while he watched his daughter sleep. He was still there when Monica returned. She placed a hand on his shoulder, a gesture to represent forgiveness, and he covered it with his own hand.

"I'm sorry for what I said. I was out of line."

She squeezed his shoulder and sat beside him. "I can't do this anymore, John."

"Us?" he asked, his face full of fear.

"The arguing. The fighting. I need you. I need you to believe me, whether or not you want to."

John looked away towards Vera. "I just want her to be normal. I want our lives to be as close to normal as possible."

He voice was so tired and so vulnerable and the vulnerability struck Monica in the heart. It wasn't something she was used to seeing in him.

"It's never going to be normal. I wish I could give you normal." She put her arm around him, resting her head on his shoulder. It occurred to her for the first time ever that it wasn't just that John wanted things to be normal, but that he _needed_ normal. His whole worldview rested on it. Of course he was not acting like himself – the world he was living in right now was too abnormal for him to exist.

It wasn't the 2.5 children and white picket fence normal that he needed, so much as the world without the paranormal. He'd managed just fine with Gibson's abilities, but whenever anything else cropped up, he would bristle. During his stead on the X-files, he'd certainly been more pissy than usual, but in time, even before she moved to DC, she'd noticed that the paranormal was becoming acceptable to him, and by the time Oliver Martin entered their lives, he was definitely in his element. But that had worn away over the years as their lives slowly progressed back to what he would have perceived as normal. Now they were back, with family and a dependable roof over their head, the one bit of undeniable paranormal currently missing in their lives, and she knew he had relaxed into it. With each mention of Vera's abilities, he felt it slipping away.

She took the journal from his hands and put it back in the drawer. "What do you think about getting out of town for a bit? Nothing fancy. We can head over to Valle de Bravo for a weekend, and just relax. V can stay here with Papa and Yolanda," she said, referring to the maid her father had hired after the ruse involving Gibson.

"We can't afford that."

"We need it. You need it. And when we get back, we can concentrate on fixing a few things."

"It's me, isn't it?" he asked with hurt in his eyes. Monica was immediately sucked back in time to the day he told her his wife had left him. "It's my fault," he'd said back then. Of course she could never leave this man, she thought, and he would certainly never leave her.

"No," she said, touching his face. "It's no one's fault. It's just a rough patch. Too much change all at once. We're off balance." She pulled him to his feet and wrapped her arms around him, grateful that he reciprocated. "We'll just sit around in the sun, and go out for dinner, and spend all the rest of our time in bed, ok? And we won't talk at all about any unexplained phenomena."

"I guess I forget how to be open minded. I do forget, like you said. I guess I want to forget."

"You don't want to believe."

"Maybe. I wish things could just be simple."

"I know."

She took him by the hand, back to their room, and closed the door. Clothes were removed in a perfunctory manner, and they made love in silence, the act being more important as a sign that they were ready to move on past the fighting, and less about satisfying their sexual desires.

After she had dragged her exhausted self to work the next morning and Vera had been safely deposited at her school, Esteban came into the library where John was busy working on resumes and tracking down leads for a job. "Do you mind if I sit?" he asked in English, and John felt a twinge of panic. Usually the old man spoke to him in Spanish. John closed his laptop and gave his father-in-law his full attention.

"It is not business to say anything, so please, if my words distress you, tell me so and I will stop."

"You're always welcome to speak your mind. This is your home, after all. We're just guests."

"No, this is your home too. You are family now, John. And despite what is going on between you and Monica, I feel that the four of us have a very pleasant life here together."

"Yes sir." The mention of his problems with his wife caused John to sweat a little more.

"My daughter is perhaps not the easiest person to live with. I say this having known her since she was three days old, and having lived under the same roof as her for eighteen years. We fought plenty as she was growing up. She is very headstrong, just like her mother was. I can imagine it may not be easy for anyone to go up against her in an argument."

John swallowed hard. "I think it's hard because we're both pretty stubborn in our own ways. She's been a model of patience with me though, I must admit, in all the years we've known each other."

"Yes, being in love with someone can certainly help."

"It's just a rough patch. Things will settle down again. There's no need to worry."

"Monica is worried."

"Monica is? She shouldn't be. She knows I'd never leave her. She knows I love her."

Esteban nodded and sized up John, who was shrinking by the second under his gaze. "Monica is special. And I don't mean that in the way that a father would speak of his only daughter. I mean it in a way that makes you uncomfortable."

John wanted to say that the whole conversation was making him uncomfortable, but he listened to his father-in-law speak as though he were a commanding officer.

"When Monica was twelve, I told her that I was going on a business trip. There was nothing unusual about that. I often went out of town or out of the country. But as soon as I told her, she shook her head and told me not to go. She said she didn't want me to ride on any planes. She was adamant, and there had been enough smaller but inexplicable instances of her knowing things, so I agreed I would take the train, and she seemed appeased.

"I arrived in Guatemala much later than planned, and to my greater annoyance, learned that the plane I would have taken arrived safely. A few days into the trip, a friend invited me to go up in his plane with another member of our group. I wasn't one for passing up such an opportunity, especially since the other invitee had much power and prestige and I knew that it would be good for me to be acquainted with him. But after I agreed, I was reminded of Monica's warning, and I bowed out, letting another person take my place. I was too embarrassed to say why. But two hours later, we heard the news that the plane had crashed and no one had survived.

"I never doubted her again. She couldn't explain how she knew. It wasn't a vision or a dream. It was just a feeling, she told us."

John nodded solemnly and felt great guilt for needing such a lecture.

"She's not happy, John. And that worries me greatly, as her father. It should worry you too."

"It does. But we talked last night. We're going to go away for a weekend and see about fixing a few things."

"That is a good start. John, you have always made her happy. I know you can continue to do so."

"I will try."

They sat for a few awkward seconds. "There is one more thing I wanted to talk to you about, but I wanted to run it past you first. It's about your job prospects in this country, specifically in regards to the government."


	70. Chapter 70

"I had lunch yesterday with Raul Castaneda, an old friend of mine who had worked in the Trade Department, and whose son Arturo works there now."

"I talked to Arturo about a month ago about a job. He seemed interested, but then he suddenly backed out without explanation."

"Yes, my friend said that Arturo liked you very much. But then he received a call from someone who said he used to work with you. He told him to avoid you, that you were hot-headed and not to be trusted. He cited assaults during your time with the FBI, and said that the kidnapping of Gibson Praise was exonerated not because you were in the right but simply because they could not build an effective case. This man also warned that the evidence was finally mounting up again, and it was likely that criminal charges would be filed."

"Did he ever figure out who that man was?"

"No. The man never identified himself and left no contact information. That, to me, is a man who cannot be trusted, a man who is obviously trying to bring you to ruin. A man with a vendetta. Do you know of anyone who would hold such a grudge against you?"

John went through the Rolodex in his mind of all of his previous connections at the FBI, but finally shook his head. "No one comes to mind. If it really is someone from the FBI, then they have some serious issues. But I think it might be more likely it's someone on the other side, someone who doesn't want me to get too close to something. Someone who thinks I should keep my nose out of it."

"That is quite possible. I do not mean to dissuade you from your current job search, but have you given any thought to seeking other employment? There are plenty of American firms here in Mexico City that I am sure would have no problem hiring you."

"I have thought about it, and I've even mentioned a few of the better job offerings to Monica, but she is dead set on me finding a way into the government here. She thinks there is something for me here, something that will prove beneficial once the invasion happens."

Esteban smiled. "I told you my daughter is a stubborn one."

Monica came home a little earlier than normal that day. She found her husband and daughter in the pool, enjoying the last of the warm weather for the year, her father sitting nearby, looking up often from the book he held in his lap. With a pool on the grounds, and her previous run-in with La Llorona, it was very important to both her parents that Vera learn how to swim. Initial fears, probably the result of her near drowning as a baby, were quickly forgotten, and now, just a few months later, she swam like a little fish and begged to be allowed in the pool no matter what the weather.

Monica smiled at the sight of her husband and child in the pool. All arguments aside, she could think of no one who was a more attentive or doting father than John. She watched as he swam around chasing Vera, tossing her in the air, and letting her hold tight to his neck while he swam as fast as he could, all of which elicited peals of laughter from the girl.

Normally, she would have been inclined to join them, but not today. She headed upstairs to the study and pulled the bookshelf from the wall, exposing the safe. Her father had insisted she learn the combination, despite her protestations, in the event of illness or death, but she had never yet opened it until that day.

She had only intended to take out the bare minimum of cash that they would need for a weekend trip. She hated having to touch the drug money, to the point that her nerves were fraught from a whole day of worrying about it. Inside the safe, she found her father's pistol, his own stash of 500,000 pesos, a thick envelope with the words "For Vera" written on it – inside was a letter, no doubt, written by Esteban to his granddaughter, one that Monica hoped she would not have to give to her daughter any time soon – several folders full of documents, and in the very back, a larger wad of cash. She took the latter and sat down at the desk to count out what she needed.

It had been several months since John had told her the total and she had pushed it out of her mind like most of the events that had happened in Durango. Now she was in awe. This was a considerable sum, slightly more than the money her father had put aside for a cataclysmic event.

She sat there unmoving until she heard John and Vera ascend the stairs. She was just pushing the bookcase back when Vera saw the light at the end of the hall and screamed out, "Mama's home," running as fast as her thick baby legs would carry her, dropping her towel. Monica scooped her up and held her wet, dripping daughter in her arms. John came up behind her, approaching his wife cautiously, kissing her on the cheek and asking about her day. He'd noticed the cash, for she had left it sitting on the desk, but he called no attention to it, other than to look at it and then at her. "We'll talk later, ok? Someone needs a bath before dinner."

When their child was asleep and they'd bid Esteban goodnight, Monica finally spoke. "I found you a job."

"What do you mean?"

She pulled the money from her dresser drawer, holding it in her hands, taking the time to remember where it came from. She handed it to John who took it with a questioning look. "I want to hire you."

"For the anti-syndicate? You sure about that?" he asked, holding the blood money in his hands.

"I am. I think, if it can be used to save the world, then I won't feel so guilty about taking it."

He nodded and then shared with her the tale her father had told. "I don't know if I can save the world, but I'll try."

She noticed he seemed more content that night, holding her in his arms until they had both fallen asleep. She was even more pleased by his actions the following morning when she went in to wake Vera and he followed. She said nothing, slightly nervous that he would interfere with their morning ritual, but he merely sat on the other bed.

Vera was confused, for her dream retelling had always been between her and her mother, and she slipped into Spanglish for a bit. Normally, her mother would have corrected her, but today, she merely recorded, verbatim, what was said. Vera spoke of riding bikes with Mikey. When she finished, she looked at her father and asked if he would be sharing his dreams, which drew a laugh from him.

"Nah, kiddo," he said, plucking her from the bed and tapping her on the nose. "You're the one with the important dreams, not me."

"That's not true," interjected Monica, cautiously. "Daddy once dreamed of you before you were born."

"That's an important dream," the child said, with a very serious face, and her father gave another huff of a laugh.

"Yes, yes it was."

He hugged her and looked over her head at her mother. He was swallowing a lot of his beliefs, or lack thereof, to be there with them this morning, but he wasn't about to give up his wife or child in anyway. If this was what he needed to do to keep his second marriage from falling to pieces, he was going to suck it up and do it. And the way his daughter hugged him, the look his wife gave him, all that made his anger crumble away. They would be ok.

Four months into his travels, Gibson was still enjoying his freedom. No one recognized him, not that he travelled in highly populated areas. He'd had no major problems – his health was good, he still had money in his pocket, his bike had held up well, and he was still enjoying with great frequency the company of various ladies of the night.. and day, and afternoon.

He was growing quite fond of them, the women themselves. Granted, it was the first time in a very long time that he had had contact with anyone outside of his little family. Now, almost every day, though he had to pay for it, he at least had the company of someone else to keep him entertained. Usually, they weren't in the mood to talk or they didn't consider it part of the job, but quite often he would find one that could be brought out of her shell with a few pointed questions. When he found one who was having a bad day, which was the case more often than not, he would slowly work out a conversation that would lead them to the root of her problem, and he noticed, often lead to them being more affectionate with him. They may not have been ideal women, but they were women, and he was learning very quickly how to relate to them.

No one had caught on until early December, when he drove into the town of Seybaplaya in the state of Campeche. Even though it wasn't all that warm, he still preferred being next to the beach. The sound of the waves was so soothing that it lulled him to sleep. For 400 pesos, he found a room to rent just off the beach, and for 200 pesos, he found a less than pretty woman to share his bed. She looked similar to the Mayan tribe they had lived with in the jungle, and while he certainly hadn't fantasized about any of the tribe, seeing this woman's face did bring back good memories – safety, a smiling baby, people who were like him, people who taught him everything he needed to know to control his gift, when he'd never thought it could be controlled before.

Selena, which was actually her real name, wasn't that much older than he was, and she'd been doing this job since she was 14, though she didn't tell him that, even when he asked her. He found no trauma in her life, just a need to earn money to support her family and now herself. She was happy. Her John was relatively kind to her, as far as Johns went. "You talk too much," she told him and placed a finger on his lips while grinding her pelvis into his.

When her work was complete, she started to leave and he asked to see her again.

"No, I am already booked for tomorrow evening."

"No, you're not. Why would you say that?" he asked, postcoitally letting down his guard a little.

"Why do you think I'm free? You think I cannot find a man to pay me every night? You think what you did was a charity for me? I always have work."

"No, I just know that you are not already booked, and you know it too."

"You are full of yourself. If my appointment tomorrow cancels on me, then I will let you know. You will be in this room?"

"Yes. Tomorrow night, eight o'clock. And if you want, I can pay you more to stay the whole night. And I think you do want."

She rolled her eyes at him and left. But sure enough, the next night, a few minutes before eight, she knocked on his door.


	71. Chapter 71

A/N: Ack! My Internet is down at home and the Internet company says it's our wiring and our landlord is totally MIA, so no telling when we'll have a connection again. I'll do what I can to post whenever I get near some wireless to steal.

* * *

"I cannot stay long. I do have other plans for my evening," she said, coming in as though she lived there, setting her things down and removing a few articles of clothing.

Gibson sat on the bed, his arms wrapped loosely around his knees, and he stared at her. There was something going on, but he hadn't fully realized it the night before. It had sat in the back of his mind all day, her reticence and the silence that lay beneath it. Maybe it had been the three beers and two shots of tequila he'd had before taking her back, but normally, even at his worse, no one's inner voice was ever so quiet. Gibson had decided to go into that night more sober and more observant.

He plied her brain for a hint of what her plans were, but there was very little, mere hints or faint glimpses, none of which were stable enough to latch on to.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Selena, remember? I told you that yesterday." There was no sense of identity surrounding her name when she said it, but no sense of misdirection either. She sauntered over to him, clad only in her bra and panties.

He stood before her and touched her face gently as he dug deeper into her mind, looking for traces of anything. Something had changed. Something was making it even harder to access her thoughts.

"What, or who, are you doing tonight after me?"

An image of a man flashed in her brain for a second before fading away. She did not speak, but smiled mysteriously.

"You have a client who can pay you more than me? Or maybe a long-term client?" he asked, his chest tightening slightly with apprehension. He pushed her bangs back from her face and looked hard into her eyes, as though it would help.

"Perhaps," she replied coyly, her hands under his shirt, climbing up his chest, doing a good job at distracting him.

He knew what it was like to look into a mind where a mental block had been put into place, as the Mayans in the jungle had taught him. As far as apt analogies went, he could only say that it felt like there were walls in place, but that doors and windows existed throughout the brain, and other than things that were sealed off behind a wall or a closed door, there was still a kaleidoscope of brain activity going on. He had long since learned on his own to ignore the clutter, the static, but it was certainly easy to find when one looked for it. Selena was blank. And it was not because she was mentally impaired in anyway.

"Who are your people?" he asked, growing more nervous by the second, and more oblivious to her wandering hands.

She stopped and laughed. "My people? My people are Mexicans, I suppose. Did you think I was Guatemalan or Columbian or something?"

"You look Mayan."

"I suppose I am. I don't really know. But my father and I are certainly Mexican. We were both born here. You are looking at me strangely. Have you changed your mind about tonight? You can do that, but you still owe me. I came all the way out here, and I had other things I needed to do."

"No, I'm fine. I'm just trying to figure you out."

"Why should it matter? I'm not here for you to understand. I'm here to fuck you and earn some money. I thought you had done this before."

"I have. You just seem different."

"Well, I'm not. At least, I don't think I am. I only have a little bit longer before I must leave. Do you want to do this or not?"

He kissed her in response, though she only barely kissed him back, choosing instead to pull off his shirt and nibble down his neck and shoulders, before pushing him back to the bed and removing the rest of his clothes. He wanted to screw her, but her mouth was suddenly on him, doing fascinating things, her fingers expertly touching parts of him that he'd never really known were sensitive, so he leaned back and let her do what she did best.

She stood up when she was finished, looking down at him, for he was still sprawled out on the bed, depleted. "That's 300 pesos."

"For a blowjob? It was 200 pesos last night for more."

"Yes, but I had to postpone my next appointment, which means I will get less for that. You can make up the difference."

"I'll pay you 300 on one condition."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Join me for dinner tomorrow."

"You will be paying for dinner?"

"Yes."

"I'll think about it." She grabbed her things and was out the door before she could hear any more of his protestations.

Gibson lay on the bed, still at a loss. He hadn't lost his abilities, for he could hear all the other residents of the small hotel, as well as the passersby on the street. But Selena was a blank slate as far as he could figure. He could get in her mind, but once there, nothing, at least nothing bigger than the faint things he'd picked up. Something told him to walk away, to get up and get out of town, but he was baffled and he felt that it was something he should understand. Even the aliens and the supersoldiers weren't like this.

The gut feeling that told him to leave did at least make him more observant, which unfortunately made it very hard for him to sleep. He spent his time walking around the town, reading every mind he could find, till his head ached and his own thoughts grew muddled. The morning and afternoon were slept away, and he awoke in a panic towards evening, but was relieved to find himself unharmed and the thoughts around him safe and unoccupied with him.

Selena came over in the evening, in a sundress and strappy heels, despite the slight chill in the air. She was still just as unreadable as the night before. "If you want me to stay the night," she said matter-of-factly, "then it will be an additional 100 pesos, added to the 300, and not including dinner."

He could not tell if she was being business like or trying to joke and his face twitched up with displeasure. _God,_ he thought, _is this how difficult it is for everyone else to deal with people?_ He knew on some level, of course, that it was impossible for others to read minds and that they often deferred to facial signals and voice inflections and the like, but these were not signals he had ever had to use.

"If you don't like the offer, we can simply do dinner, or dinner and a fuck, but I get to go home afterward."

Did the set face and steady voice mean she was angry? Serious? Frustrated?

"I don't understand you at all," he admitted.

"Obviously. It's pretty simple though, but you can let me know after dinner."

Dinner. Oh yes, there was that. There were not too many choices in the town, and there were slightly more if he was willing to take her on his bike, but he wasn't so trusting as to allow anyone who was unreadable to sit behind him while he drove such a dangerous contraption.

"How about El Toro Negro?" he suggested.

"No, I don't like that place. I want to go to Manuela's."

He really didn't care, but he was curious why it was she wanted to go there. He was not used to the lack of ready answers and explanations when dealing with people, even though he almost never paid attention to such trivial matters.

"Do you normally do this?" she asked as she sipped her beer.

"Do what?" he asked, honestly baffled.

"Hire a girl to go out to dinner with you?"

He laughed. "No, not once. And I've been with a lot of women like you. Well, not really _like_ you. You're… different. I can't put my finger on it."

She set her beer down and leaned forward. "You can put your finger on whatever you like tonight, if you want more than dinner."

"I do, definitely. I kind of want more than dinner right now." Even he could not miss her exaggerated advances.

She sat back into her chair, a smile of accomplishment on her face. "Dinner first."

Gibson spent the entire meal concentrating hard on her. He just couldn't figure it out. She seemed perfectly normal in all respects, and she was being more open and convivial than she'd been the first two nights. She talked of her favorite memories from childhood, her older brothers and the tricks they would play on her. She spoke of her younger sister who was so disgusted with her life choice that she went and became a nun in hopes of balancing out Selena's wrongs. Her mother had died when she was twelve and her father had never been good at anything but drinking, and so she'd found her way on to the streets eventually, because someone needed to provide for them.

Gibson had heard this story a number of times now, though usually locked up in a woman's head, for prostitutes were usually not so forthcoming even when he tried to converse with them.


	72. Chapter 72

To hear it, or anything, without supporting backup from a person's thoughts twisted his stomach up in knots. Maybe she was alien and he just hadn't met one of her kind yet. He wondered if her blood was red or green. He did not remember any unusual bumps on the back of her neck from the first night, but the first night was a blur anyway.

He abruptly leaned forward, slipping his hand under her long black hair, grabbed hold of her neck, and pulled her towards him for a kiss. No bump. Her eyes narrowed, but a smile appeared on her face.

"You are a strange man."

"Are you ready to head out? I'd like to move on to the next course," he said, his voice dripping with innuendo.

"Dinner does not include dessert? Manuela makes the best flan."

He leaned back in his chair and studied her again. She studied him right back. He thought about the absence of walls and doors and windows in her head. Where were her thought hiding? Surely she had them. Surely she too was thinking as she stared at him.

"Go ahead and order. I'm going to the bathroom."

As he walked back to the table, he caught the eye of a cook in the tiny kitchen. The boy was no more than fourteen, chopping peppers without really watching what he was doing. His eyes were locked on Gibson. Gibson stopped short. There were no thoughts to be found inside this young man's head either. And he looked remarkably like Selena. A shiver climbed up his spine. The boy gave a cautious smile and turned back to his work.

"Do you know the boy in the kitchen?" he asked his date.

"Octavio? Yes, he's my cousin. Manuela is actually my aunt."

"You didn't say that."

"It never came up."

"Do you have a lot of family in town?"

"A few. Most live over in Campeche. But my aunt and uncle and their two sons live here."

Everything was telling him to leave now. Leave the table, the girl, the town. He pulled out his wallet and started pulling out a few bills. "Here. I'll let you pay. I'm going to go back to my room."

Her brow scrunched up in confusion. "Why? I ordered you a coffee. You look so tired I was thinking it might be hard for you to enjoy tonight," she said with what looked like sincerity

He scrutinized her again, looking for any sign of doubt or lies, but her face held its look and he sighed with resignation. _Just because I can't read her mind doesn't mean she's a danger. She's a 22-year-old whore and her cousin is a fourteen-year-old prep cook. It is not at all likely that they will hurt me for who I am, or that they even have an inkling that I am on the run. She might want to steal my wallet and maybe he spat in my tortillas for using his cousin. That's all._

His reassurances slowly slipped away as she ate her flan, doing her best to lean over and show cleavage, smiling seductively, licking her lips and rubbing her feet against his legs. He sipped his coffee, which he didn't even like, and finally paid up.

She was giddy on the way back, laughing without reasons that he could decipher, grabbing hold of his hand from time to time, pulling him with her. His fatigue was beginning to catch up with him, despite the coffee, and he wondered if they'd accidentally given him decaf instead. She caught sight of his eyelids drooping. "You can't be that tired. The night is still young. Come on!" The soles of her sandals clapped on the sidewalk as she ran towards his hotel, and he had no choice but to chase after her as best he could.

The run and her laughter made him smile, but he was thoroughly exhausted by the time they reached his room. She grabbed hold of him but he shook his head. "You don't want me to stay the night? You don't want anything?" She seemed disappointed.

"No, I'm just sleepy. You can stay. I'll want you in the morning." With that, he kicked off his shoes and crawled under the covers, falling asleep without ever caring if she'd joined him or not.

Hours after the morning had finally arrived, Gibson opened his eyes. Both he and Selena were naked, but he did not remember doing anything. She shifted in the bed when he did, and he knew that at best she was just pretending to sleep. His own needs were pretty apparent, and he ran his hand along her ass, satisfied when she adjusted herself ever so slightly. He slipped her arm around her waist and pulled her up a little, entering her from behind, not so eager to see her face with its confusing expressions.

After a few thrusts, he woke a little more and pulled out, realizing that he was not wearing a condom, which was especially stupid when fucking a woman whose mind he could not read. As he reached for his bag to grab one, he stopped short.

The silence around him was deafening.

His desire for Selena disappeared in a heartbeat and he walked to the window, peaking out. The town was most definitely not deserted. But he heard no one's thoughts.

He looked at the woman lying naked in his bed. Her face betrayed nothing. His was full of terror.

"What did you do to me?"

She furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I could… I…" How in the world could he even think of telling her what he could do?

"Maybe you need to go back to sleep. Are you sick?" she asked, getting out of bed and picking up her clothes from the floor.

"Last night, did you put something in my coffee?"

"No, why would I do that? Did you find it unusual? I don't think Octavio would have done anything to it. He's a boy, but he understood that I was working. If he put something in your coffee, I will be very upset with him."

She had to be lying, he thought as she slipped her sundress over her head. And now she was trying to escape.

"You took something from me."

"I didn't realize you were one of _those_ clients. You seemed so sensible at first. I took nothing from you, I have nothing of yours, and you can search my purse if you don't believe me."

He stood before her, looking her straight in the eyes, almost nauseous from the complete and utter lack of information he could retrieve from her mind. "You know what you took. If I don't have that, I can't protect myself."

"What in the world are you talking about?"

"You can't leave. You need to tell me everything that happened last night, after I passed out."

"You slept. I watched the TV. You didn't wake up until this morning when you started pounding away at my body. And then you started accusing me of something without ever explaining what it is. And, by the way, I can leave. You cannot control me. I'm leaving now, and I don't even care if you pay me. You are crazy."

When she made to walk to the door, he took her wrist as hard as he could in his hand and twisted it, pushing her back to the bed. She sat heavily and looked at him with undeniable anger in her eyes. "I suggest you get out of town now, before my uncle hears about this. He is not at all kind to people who hurt me."

"I'm not at all kind to people who hurt me. And that's what you've done, even if you won't admit to it."

She didn't move, sitting there stubbornly, rubbing her wrist and glaring at him.

"Why would you take it? What business is it of yours? How did you even know?" he asked, his questions frantic.

"I want to leave."

"You're not even asking what it is I'm accusing you of taking, which means you most certainly know what I'm talking about."

"Maybe it means I don't give a fuck. Maybe it means I didn't take anything and I don't care to keep discussing this with a crazy naked white boy."

Without a word, he put on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and pulled the only chair in the room up to the bed so he could look her dead in the eye when he spoke.

"I need you to be honest with me. I don't know what your connection is exactly, but I know you have something to do with it. Maybe you don't realize that. Maybe you are innocent. But there's a connection and I need you to help me figure out what it is."

"You're crying."

He hadn't even noticed the tear and brushed it away quickly. "Like I said, you took something from me. Something I used to protect myself with. Now it's gone, and I'm kind of vulnerable until I get it back."

"Vulnerable? What are you, Superman or something? You're not making much sense."

He seriously doubted now whether or not she knew what was going on. Sharing his secret was a huge risk, but he wasn't getting anywhere with her.

"I can read minds."

She did not react.

"Well, I could, until this morning."

"No one can read minds," she said, with a little too much disinterest.

"I could. All my life. But I couldn't read your mind. Or you cousin's. So I think you have something to do with it."

"Well, if I am your kryptonite, then perhaps you ought to go far, far away from me so you can have your silly made-up superpower back."

"I think you're lying. I think you knew I could. I think you were blocking your thoughts against me somehow, because you knew. And now you've done something to take it away from me."

"I think you need to let me go now. I don't deserve this."

He looked towards the door and shuddered. "I can't go out there. There are people who will kill me without a second thought, and if I can't read their minds, then I can't protect myself."

She stood up again, causing him to jump to his feet immediately. "So, sit in here and rot for all I care. You can't hold me against my will."

"Just tell me what you know and I'll gladly let you walk out that door."

"I know that you are crazy and delusional. And I know that you're scaring me. And I know that when I do get out of here, I'm going to my uncle and telling him about what you've done, so you better leave town quickly." She started walking and reached out again for her arm, but only laid his hand on it.

"Your uncle, where is he from?"

Selena stopped in her tracks. "What business is it of yours?"

"Is he from Quintana Roo? Are you Mayan?"

Her eyes searched his face, for what he did not know, but he let her take her time to answer.

"If I say yes," she finally spoke, "will you let me go?"

"If you say yes, then I'll want to speak to your uncle. The only other people I ever met who were like me lived in the jungles of Quintana Roo."

"You don't want to speak to my uncle. Especially not after I tell him what you did."

Gibson dropped his hand from her arm. "I'm sorry. I'm just… scared. If you can help me figure this out, I'll… I'll pay you more."

Her eyes continued to dart over his face and she bit her lip – the first sign of uncertainty he'd seen in her. "How much?"

"500 pesos?"

She laughed. "Boy, I could make five times that in one night during the slow season."

He looked down, calculating his remaining funds as best he could. "I don't have a lot of money left. But if you can help me, I'll give you everything I've got left, minus what I would need to get home."

"And that is…?"

"About 7000 pesos."

"That's still not a lot. But it's better." She shifted on her feet and ran her hands over her dress. "Really, though, you don't want to meet my uncle. He's not a kind man."

"I thought you liked him."

"I like not making him angry. And I have a feeling that if I were to bring you to him, he would not be pleased."

"He knows what you do?"

"Oh, he knows alright."

"He's your john, isn't he?"

She nodded.

If there was one thing Gibson had learned about prostitutes during his trip, it was that johns were not nice and understanding people. They beat their women, took their money, raped them, manipulated them every way they could. At best, they had no interest in the woman other than her money. It was demeaning work, and he often wished there was more he could do for them than sympathize. But he didn't have the funds to save them, nor did he have the luxury to be a knight in white armor for them. He had to keep his head down and his hands clean. Stepping into a fight would only jeopardize his anonymity.

"Do you like your life?"

She shrugged. "It's all I know. It's really not that bad. I guess it could be a lot worse."

"It could be better."

Selena looked away.

"If you know something, if you can help me, then maybe I can help you."

"What makes you think I need the help of a gringo boy?"

"I can get you out of here. I can give you a ride anywhere you like, help you find a new home, get a new name if you want, and I'll give you as much money as I can."

"It's not that easy. If I could just leave, I would. I only see my uncle once a week, and I can easily make enough to pay my way out of here."

"Then what's keeping you?"

"Uncle has something of mine," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"What?" Gibson asked, breathlessly, struggling to interpret the expression on her face.

"I have a child. A daughter."

"And he won't let you be with her?"

"I get to see her once a week in return for my earnings."

"That's not fair at all. She's your daughter. You should be the one raising her."

Her chest rose and fell sharply as she tried to find the right words.

"He's her daughter too. I was 14 when I had her. I couldn't do anything except walk the streets. I couldn't be a mother to her, not really. Couldn't take care of her, give her a home, feed her, nothing. My aunt thinks she's just mine. My aunt isn't very kind to her, but it's something, you know?"

"It's still not fair. And what if your uncle is just as mean to her as he is to you?"

"I've never figured out a way to get her. We're not allowed to be alone. I worry all the time, if he will turn her into the same thing I am now. She deserves better."

"You both do. Help me, and I'll help you and your daughter."


	73. Chapter 73

A/N - Computer! And Internet! Both working at the same time for the first time in weeks! I am very happy!

* * *

"Tell me everything," he said.

She played with the hem of her dress and looked up with uncertainty. "Uncle doesn't like people like you… people like me."

"Haha!" exclaimed Gibson. "I knew it!

With just a touch of hesitation, she told the story of two brothers whose father had left his people. They were indeed Mayan, from the Quintana Roo region. The father had left to seek his fortune or a life of adventure, no one knew. He had married a woman of Mayan descent who did not share his gift, but shortly after the birth of their second son, he died of an unknown illness. He had never shared his gift with his wife, and as the boys were still infants upon his death, he had not known that they were like him, though he suspected it in the older child.

The mother was horrified when she realized what the boys could do. She had her own secrets, a tragic past, it was rumored. The older boy, Selena's father, had glimpsed it, and in his innocence brought it out into the open, forever ruining his mother's life. Shame and despair led her to end her life when her sons were still children. The younger son was unable to forgive the older, and vowed to eradicate their gift. But he could not follow his mother in her unpardonable sin of suicide and when he held a gun towards his brother, he fell to his knees, disgusted with himself for even thinking he could kill the only family he had.

"At least, that's the way he tells it. It's very high and mighty talk for someone who prostitutes his niece, I've always thought. My father never talks about his childhood, or anything, really. He just drinks. By the time I was old enough to understand my father's thoughts, my uncle had already started giving me the shots."

"The shots?"

"They're some kind of metal or something. It messes up that part of the brain. Uncle says it clogs it, like hair in a drain. I don't really know because I've never really been allowed to use my gift. But it keeps me from reading minds, and also keeps Uncle from reading mine. He makes Father take the shots too, but he won't use them on himself. My uncle believes that no one should have the gift, yet he does nothing to inhibit his own abilities. Just others."

"Are your siblings like you?"

"No, I'm the only one of my father's children to read minds. I know it scared him. I think he wanted Uncle to cripple me. It was the only way to keep his secrets safe. The cousin you saw at the restaurant, Octavio, he can do it too, but Uncle stopped it as soon as he realized he could do it. He does not trust even his own son."

"And your daughter?"

"Yes, Inez can. She is more pureblooded than I am. But she's certainly not allowed to use it either. Uncle doesn't want her to know that he's her father. It shames him. He does not like shame."

"He deserves it though. This shot, you say it blocks everything, right? So even though I can't read his mind, he can't read mine either, right?"

She nodded.

"We can use this to our advantage. It's like he won't be able to hear us coming." Gibson moved closer and leaned in. His eyes were full of fear and sadness. "What I really want to know, though, is how he knew, and how he got to me, and why. If you helped, you can admit it. I will still help you… if you help me."

"It was at Manuela's. He was there – they live above the restaurant. He can make his thoughts silent; he hides them. But he heard yours. And when you were in the bathroom, he told me to say I had ordered you a coffee, which he then spiked with something to make you sleep. He followed us, and after you had passed out, I let him in and he gave you the shot."

"But why? What does it matter to him? He must have known I was planning on moving on very soon. I was no threat to him."

"I don't know. He tells me nothing."

"Do you know how to reverse it? You said you get shots – does this mean it wears off after a while?"

"I'm not sure how it all works. Maybe it wears off. Maybe Uncle is just afraid it will wear off so he keeps injecting me. Again, he is not one for explaining his actions."

"I'm going to need answers from him. Is he physically dangerous? Would I even stand a chance against him? Does he have weapons?"

"He is not much taller than you, but much, much stronger. He was a fisherman in his youth and could haul up large nets full of fish like they were nothing. He doesn't fish much now, but he is still very strong. I don't like to get on his bad side."

"Perhaps if we drug him, like he did to me, then we can get him into a position from which he can't escape. We could tie him up and not release him until he admits to a cure – a cure that actually works." It was Gibson's turn to be hesitant now, and he gripped Selena's hands in his. "You've got to understand that there are evil men out there who know about my gift and who will kill me for having it or kill me for not having it. That's not the best of choices. But I'd rather have my gift and the advantage that goes along with it, than not."

Selena nodded and squeezed his hands.

Then there was a knock at the door. They both jumped and turned immediately. Gibson wished he'd been able to carry a gun on his little trip, but it had been too much of a risk. He drew a blade from his bag and approached the door.

"That's not much of a knife you've got there, my little friend," said a man who bore a strong resemblance to Selena. He moved his open shirt to the side to reveal a much larger hunting knife attached to his waist. "I think we need to have a little talk."

The little chapel in the backyard had finally given to Monica the same solace it had to her mother, though in a different way. She liked to visit it in the evenings, for a moment of quiet after days filled with an active toddler and a job that often seemed to have more work than hours available. It was warm for the city, this late evening in November that found John out of the country, tracking down a lead on Marita Covarubias, while her daughter and father enjoyed a simple game of soccer on the barren lawn.

She sat for a very long time, the sounds of her family slipped away, the day's report of three women brutally victimized faded, the impending invasion was forgotten, and she fell into a welcomed deep trance, her mind blank. Only when Vera climbed onto her lap, did she return to her consciousness.

"Are you thinking about Gibson?" asked the girl.

"No. Are you?"

The child nodded, and Monica smiled warmly at her, enveloping her in her arms.

"Did you want to light a candle for him? We can send him some more good thoughts."

"He can't hear us."

"Well, no, not really," said Monica. "Come on. We'll light one for Gib and one for Daddy, and think thoughts about them coming home soon, ok?"

The child grabbed hold of the ledge of the altar and stood on her tiptoes, watching her mother light two tea candles. "Which one is for Gibson?"

"The first one. Because you were thinking of him already."

"Can we tell him not to be scared?"

Monica knelt before her daughter. "V, what's going on? Is Gibson ok?"

Vera wrapped her arms around her mother's neck. "He's scared. I'm scared. I want him to come home."

"I know. I'm scared too," she said, feeling frightened now. "We don't know where he is though. He'll call us when he needs us, and then we'll go get him, ok?"

"I wish I could hear him so that we can go get him now."

"Maybe if you try listening very hard tonight while you sleep, you will hear him. Or maybe you will dream of him, and you can tell him to call, ok?"

Her little shoulders fell. "I can only talk to Mikey at night. Never Gibson. Gibson can't hear me."

"Ok. We're going to light another candle for Gibson. This one is for him to be brave. And if he can't hear us, then we'll just have to try to send him louder thoughts. How does that sound?"

The child did not respond, but Monica lit the candle all the same, smiling reassuringly at her daughter, hiding the fear that lay inside.


	74. Chapter 74

He'd gone without a fight, walking with Selena's uncle through the streets of Seybaplaya. No one spoke. The three of them entered Manuela's, which was serving breakfast to only one customer, and walked past the kitchen to the stairs leading to the second floor.

The place was a disaster. There were only two rooms. The main room served as living room and bedroom for all of the children – Octavio, who was down in the kitchen, his younger brother Enrique, and a tiny scruff of a girl that Gibson assumed was Inez. Gibson's heart broke for the girl, and he felt a pang in his heart for Vera. This child before him was obviously malnourished and terrified of both her father and the stranger who had walked in. She retreated to a corner, oblivious to the garbage strewn around, holding fast to a one-legged Barbie, sucking her thumb. It did not escape his notice that Selena hardly looked at child, and the child did not look at her.

They walked to the back bedroom, where Manuela lay on the bed, half dressed and caring not the least that there were visitors. "Take the children out the house. Tell Octavio to stay in the kitchen and not come upstairs." She eyed him, defiantly, and made no effort to move, so he grabbed her arm roughly and pulled her to her feet. "Out of the house, now." Manuela grabbed a t-shirt from the floor and walked out, slamming the door behind her. She screamed at the children to get off their lazy asses and get moving. There was the sound of a slap and more screaming. Gibson had never felt more homesick for John and Monica than he did now.

While they waited in silence for the front door to close, Gibson took in the surroundings of the room. Without his gift, he was going to have to rely on other skills. What would Mulder do? Mulder noticed all kinds of quirks and all kinds of details. It came naturally to him. Gibson had to force it, for he was more used to picking up other people's observations than his own.

Selena's behavior towards the little girl was odd to him. Even when the child was being slapped, she didn't flinch. She also did not seem to cower in her uncle's presence like he would have expected. She seemed quite at ease, sitting on the edge of the bed only a few feet away from her uncle.

"Why did you take my ability away from me?"

"Why do you have it?"

Gibson narrowed his eyes. "Because I was born with it. What kind of question is that? Why do you have your ability? Why does Selena? Why does Inez?"

"You're not one of them."

"One of who?" asked Gibson, afraid he would say something about the aliens.

"One of the jungle people. But you know of them. You lived with them. Yet you were like this before. I've never known anyone who could read mines that wasn't at least descended from them."

"I guess I'm just a fluke then."

"Yes, a fluke with a gift that wasn't meant for you."

"Well, I've got it, and I didn't ask for it, so I don't see that it's any of your business."

"Ah, people like you are my number one business."

"How so?"

Mendoza got up, walked over to a little corner of rubbish, and shuffled around a few items, his back to Gibson. When he turned around, he had gun.

Gibson backed away slowly, towards the door. "Selena, I think we should leave."

"No," she said, "I don't think we will be doing that."

He blinked a few times, trying to read her face, shocked by the coldness in her voice. "Are you turning on me?"

"You assume that I have been on your side."

"But the things you said, about wanting to get away, saving your daughter…"

"Oh, you stupid American boy. You think you're so smart with your mind reading. Don't you see you know nothing about people at all? Haven't you learned that people are rarely what they seem to be on the outside? That they lie about who they are, why they do the things they do?"

"I don't understand."

"My uncle protects me. He always has."

"By raping you and keeping you from your daughter?"

She laughed a very unconvincing laugh. "I have no daughter. That scrap of a child you saw really is Manuela's. I just needed to put you at ease. I needed to make you think you needed to come here to face my uncle. He obviously didn't think I'd be able to pull it off, since he showed up so early this morning. But you were very much willing to be my knight in shining armor."

He looked her over with solemn eyes. Had she really betrayed him? Was she really possible of that? She'd seemed so earnest, so scared, so beaten down herself that morning.

"I don't want any trouble," said Gibson, facing Mendoza again. "I just want to fix what happened and go home. I swear, after I've left, you'll never hear from me again. I won't tell anyone about you or what happened. I just want to get home to my parents."

"I'm afraid that will not be happening." Mendoza motioned with his gun to Selena. She pulled a chair over to the middle of the room and stood next to it with a roll of duct tape. "You'll need to take a seat, my friend." When Gibson didn't move, he cocked the pistol in his hand.

"Why can't you just let me leave?" he asked, as he sat.

"You," he said as Selena bound Gibson's wrists and ankles to the chair, "are much too valuable. Don't you realize that?"

"How am I valuable without my ability?"

"Because the injection I gave you is only temporary. It's even more binding than the duct tape, don't you think? It blinds you, in a way, and makes it far easier to catch you."

"How long until it wears off?"

"Long enough. And if it starts to come back before I've found a buyer for you, then I'll just give you another injection?"

The word buyer hit Gibson like a knife through the heart. "You're going to sell me?"

"To the highest bidder. I've already put the word out. I have to be careful myself, you see, because the drug cartels are not trustworthy organizations and they would sooner kill you and rape your family before agreeing to a fair deal. But there are others who buy from me – government officials, Federales… I've even made a deal or two with some American Mafioso in my time."

Gibson's chest rose and fell heavily as he flashed back to the work he did in New York City for Ricky Soreno and how he wouldn't have gotten away had it not been for John and Monica. Now, he was on his own, trying to avoid the same fate.

"You look scared, my friend. It may not be that bad. Some of my wares have been sold to very civilized people. I have one who works for the Federales and, well, yes, they do keep the old man locked up in a cell when they're not using him, but I believe he gets three square meals a day and a TV to keep him occupied when he's not interrogating criminals. The fact that you are American opens up so many doors for you, though. You could go anywhere in the world, almost."

"I just want to go home."

"I doubt your parents would ever be able to pay my asking price."

"How much am I worth?"

Mendoza eyed him sharply. "You a rich kid?" Gibson did not respond and Mendoza shrugged. "I think for you, I could maybe get a million American dollars. Maybe more, since you're young."

Gibson looked around the hovel he was in. "You've never sold anyone before. Or else you would have a much nicer home."

His captor flashed him a cruel and taunting smile. "Your naivety is charming. This is where I do business of the less than reputable variety. That fat cow you saw lounging on the bed, she was once a young and beautiful woman, just the kind of thing a newly married man like myself should have on the side. The sad fact that children were produced from it has meant I have some financial responsibility towards her, but it does make it easier to hide what I do. I have a legal wife, who was a rich, vapid waste of life, whom I have only made richer and more vapid over the years, happily occupying a mansion on the sea, built from the sale of people like you."

"But there aren't that many people like us. There are only the ones in the jungle, and they're gone now."

"Yes, that has slowed business down in the last few years. Which is why I think I should be able to so well with you. Supply and demand, that's what drives business. Anyway, there are plenty of other people to sell for other services when times are hard."

"Why haven't you sold Selena?"

Mendoza turned to his niece. "He's certainly not the brightest, is he? Has no idea about whoring. Has no concept of how useful a mind-reading prostitute might be to certain people. I think it's about time to quiet him down though. Hand me the duct tape."

Gibson spent the remainder of the day taped to the chair, which Mendoza had dragged out to the living room so that Manuela could have her room back. Inez had retreated immediately to her corner, glancing up from time to time at the captive in her living room. Gibson wished he could give her a kind smile, for it did not seem like she got many of those, but the duct tape made it impossible.

She was so tiny and so easily terrified. When one of her parents would walk through the room, she had a tendency to retreat immediately under the bed beside her corner. From there, she was even more watchful, a thumb stuck in her mouth, her wide eyes locking on the stranger she could barely look at before. If the injections didn't take away their ability to both read and be read, he could have told her to not be afraid and that he was trying to figure out a way to help them both escape. He would have told her how she reminded him of another little girl, one that he missed desperately right now, and how her parents would help her to find a better family. But he could convey none of that and did what he could to express himself with his eyes.

For two days, they kept him attached to the chair, finally choosing to use rope instead of duct tape and leaving his mouth unbound if he promised to keep quiet. Mendoza did not inject him again, and though it was hazy, he could feel his powers coming back, as promised. He didn't want to say anything, but it didn't matter. The injections both blocked his ability to use telepathy and for it to be used on him; now that it was coming back, Mendoza was well aware.

"You wonder why I don't inject you again? I need you to be able to demonstrate your abilities. And it's always useful to hear if you're planning to escape. If you are, I would encourage you to avoid that."

Gibson hadn't had to block his thoughts against others in a long time, but he figured now, with all of his unwanted free time, it was a good opportunity to sharpen that skill.

Inez crept over to him once as he did this. When he opened his eyes, she was standing before him, clad in a stained t-shirt that was far too large for her, a large-headed doll with hair as tangled as her own clutched to her breast. "Are you sleeping?" she asked in a voice that was no more than a whisper.

"No, just concentrating," he whispered back, even though they were alone in the room, for Manuela was holed up in her room again.

She fluttered around him a bit, making a full circle, and stood before him again. "I concentrate. A lot."

"Yes, I've noticed. You concentrate on everyone. You're a very good watcher."

"Mimi," she said, presenting her doll to him, "concentrates even more than me. She never even blinks. I try not to blink but my eyes get itchy. And I get too tired to keep my eyes open. And sometimes I don't like what I see so I close them."

He wanted to tell her to untie him so that he could scoop her up in his arms and throw her on the back of his bike and take her to a safe place far away from here. But even if she could untie the knots, they would never be able to get past Mendoza's sons who were manning the restaurant, and he couldn't run well enough to escape even Manuela, and he was pretty sure his bike and all his money had long since disappeared. He would have to get them out a different way, but it was still possible that she could help.

"Do you know your numbers, Inez?"

She nodded and began to count, slowly, stretching out each finger until she reached 10. She smiled proudly.

"Do you have a good memory? If I gave you a whole bunch of numbers to remember, would you be able to remember them for a long time?"

"Maybe."

"And do you know how to use a payphone?"

She looked down at the floor and shook her head.

"It's ok. It's pretty easy. Do you have permission to the leave and go play outside?"

"Sometimes."

"And one more question – it's the most important question of them all. Can you keep a secret? It's a very big secret and I don't think your parents would like for you to know it. They might get very mad at you if they find out."

"I keep lots of secrets. I only share them with Mimi and I only tell her with my mind."

"I need you to call my family and tell them where I am so they can help me. Do you think you could do that?"

"They will come rescue you?"

"Mmhm."

"And then you'll go away?"

"Yes, I'll get to go home."

"I don't want you to leave. You're nice. You smile at me."

"Maybe you can come with me, ok? Would you like that?"

Her eyes brightened. "Do you have lots of toys?"

"Lots. And a swimming pool. And a little girl for you to be friends with."

Inez smiled.

For two more days, he worked with her, patiently teaching her the phone number to Esteban's house in Mexico City, a brutal string of twelve numbers that was almost too much for the child. He did his best to explain how to use a pay phone to make a collect call, but it was harder since he'd never used one and since the child had never operated a phone before in her life. They worked in short spurts, for Manuela did not want Inez talking to him, but it was slowly starting to pay off.

However, she had just successfully repeated back the number a few times and was still struggling with the phone when Mendoza returned. Inez had already retreated to her corner as soon as the first footfalls were heard on the stairs.

"I found a buyer," he said.

Gibson stared at him but did not speak. He kept his mind as blank as possible.

"You are not curious?" Mendoza shrugged. "It is of no matter. You will go to whoever purchases you. It's time to leave now, though."

With no time to argue, Gibson was untied and escorted roughly out of the apartment and into a waiting car with tinted windows. He had struggled a little, but more out of instinct that planning. Resistance was indeed futile at this moment. In the car, he was blindfolded and his hands bound again.

"I am taking you to my brother's. It is too much risk to have you around me when your ability to read minds starts to return. Salvador is safe, and for a cut of the money, he is trustworthy. Still, you will not be allowed to communicate with him. In a week's time, I will send someone to come interview you. You should be somewhat functioning by then, and if not, he will return a week later. If you're unable to perform the tasks requested of you," he removed the large knife from his belt and began to play with it menacingly, "well, let's just say that there will be less of you that will be allowed to try again the following week."

Gibson did everything he could to push back the thoughts surrounding his plot with Inez. He tried not to think about how hopeful he was she could pull it off. Instead, he thought back to John and Monica, hiding their names just in case Mendoza could pick up on them, and how he was supposed to be back by Christmas, now only two weeks away. It was still possible to get home in time. He would not give up.

As soon as they were gone, Inez slipped out of the apartment and through the sparsely occupied restaurant. Octavio barely noticed her. She walked to the public phone booth and stepped inside, Gibson's instructions echoing in her head. However, as she stared at the number pad, she came to realize that she would not be able to help. She did not know what the numbers looked like.

Monica had told John upon his return of Vera's fears for Gibson. "She said he can't hear us. I worry that something serious has happened."

"He knows the number. He will call if he can," said John, swallowing his doubts regarding Vera's statement. "If he's not back by Christmas, I guess I can try to track him down, but I think it might prove to be impossible."

"I've been paying such close attention to Vera's dreams, reviewing everything since Gibson left, and nothing seems to be connected to him. But I'm hopeful that if he needs our help, we will know. Somehow, we will know. Right?" There was fear in her eyes. He put his hands on both sides of her head and pulled her towards him for a kiss.

"Of course we'll know."

As Gibson began his second day of captivity at Salvador's, whose description by Selena had not been fabricated, Inez began to worry. She found a street kid of eight who knew his numbers and said he would help. She told him each number and he dialed them in for her one at a time and then handed her the phone. A man answered. She took a deep breath, the microphone situated well underneath her chin, and began her speech. "I live in Seybaplaya, above Manuela's restaurant. Your son is here. He was here. Now he is gone. I don't know where. We need you to come here and rescue us."

"What?" came a man's voice. "I can't understand a word you're saying. Speak louder."

She did. She yelled loud enough that the street kid could hear her outside the booth. She did not notice him falling over with laughter. He had purposely misdialed the number and to hear her screaming to be heard only made it funnier.

"I'm sorry, little girl. I think you have the wrong number." With that, the man hung up. Inez stood on her tiptoes and after a few tries managed to hang the phone on the cradle. She turned to the boy who took one look at her and sped off, laughing loudly. She did not understand that she had been tricked; she only thought she'd made some sort of mistake while conducting her call.


	75. Chapter 75

Dedicating these chapters to IT Guy, who was killed in a motorcycle accident a couple weeks ago. I hope that you find heaven full of fast bikes and loose women. Also, yes, Mr. Diaz does bear a striking resemblance to you. You will be missed.

* * *

Gibson spent a full week at Salvador's, locked in a tiny room that reminded him of his first room in Mexico, the little monks' cell. Just like that room, he had a narrow bed and a simple wooden chair. Unlike that room, the tiny window had been cemented in. For light, he had a single bulb hanging bare from the ceiling. There was no form of entertainment and within a few hours he thought he'd likely go mad before anyone showed up to buy him. Salvador, a sad sack of a man who reeked of alcohol, brought him three meals a day, but never spoke and never seemed to hear Gibson's request for a newspaper or a book with which to occupy his time. Three times a day he was led to the bathroom, but the shackles Mendoza had locked around his wrists and ankles during transport were never removed. Escape seemed possible only if the drunkard Salvador blacked out during one of these trips out of the room. It was not likely.

When he wasn't busy working on controlling his own thoughts, he was examining every single inch of the room and the furniture. The chair was wooden and sturdy, though the woven straw seat was frayed and several sections had broken. The old iron bed frame was held together by a few rusty screws. At meal times he was given only a spoon to eat with, and when he tried to use it to loosen the screws, the corrosion proved to be too much and they were quickly stripped and unmovable. The plates given to him were plastic, and Gibson wasn't sure that were he able to fashion something into a weapon he'd actually be able to use such force.

At the end of the week, the door opened and Mendoza the younger entered the room, which was not a surprise to Gibson who had now regained about twenty-five percent of his abilities. "Someone will be here tomorrow to interview you. I need you to shower and shave. Put on these clothes," he instructed, handing him a pair of grey sweats. "I'm glad to know your powers are returning. You can quit thinking about how to escape while showering, because that door will not be closed and I'll be sitting right outside. You're a goldmine, kid. I'm going to be set for life after I sell you."

Two men in suit came to interview him. It was short. Questions about numbers and names. They had to think very clearly and very simply for him to get even that, but it was enough to prove he had the abilities Mendoza claimed he did. Half a million dollars were handed over, the rest to be given in the next few months should his abilities prove to be as impressive as Mendoza claimed. Then they hobbled him again.

"It won't do," said Mendoza as he jabbed a long, thick needle into Gibson's thigh, "for you to be reading your boss' mind. He's an important man, and a patient one. He wants to meet you while you're incapacitated. You will probably never speak to him again."

Gibson felt his world slipping away from him again. Thoughts grew smaller and quieter, as though they were being swept away from him in a vortex, and by the time the syringe was empty, the world was silent again. His head pounded and he clinched his eyes in pain. "It's temporary, kid," said Mendoza, a false friendliness in his voice. "The headache will only last about an hour. It's just disabling all the microscopic connections in your brain."

His shackles were undone and replaced by the invisible restraints of the armed men who had interviewed him. After a car ride, a jet ride, and another car ride, mostly unseen by him, due to a blindfold, he was taken inside a building and deposited in a room. The blindfold was removed and he was facing a man with dark, closely cropped and meticulously styled hair, startling blue eyes, and dressed in a grey pinstripe suit.

"Hello Mr. Green," said the man, using the name that he had learned from Gibson's fake passport. "My name is Mr. Diaz. You'll be working for me. At least once your supposed abilities return. I asked Mendoza to give you a lower dose. I'm quite eager to get to work."

"What am I supposed to do? And where am I?"

"Two very different questions. You will be assisting me in various business deals. I do a lot of transactions between Mexico and the U.S. Not everyone I deal with is trustworthy, and that is where you come in, of course. I have been screwed over, shall we say, more than once in recent years, and I decided it was time for me to gain the upper hand, permanently.

"As for where you are, you are here. This is your new home. I hope you will find it to your liking. I just had it renovated in anticipation of your arrival. Everything is new and modern, and the kitchen is well stocked, though there is a direct line here to the kitchen, should you run out of anything. I'd like for you to just enjoy yourself for the next two months, though I will ask you to read up on the company. I will see to it that various reports are delivered to your door for your perusal. I will most likely not be meeting with you after today, but will communicate with you via letter."

"How long am I supposed to stay here? And can I call my family?"

Mr. Diaz laughed. "You will be here for some time, I assure you. Notice that there are no windows, and only one door. There will always be two guards posted outside it." He pointed to the ceiling. "There are cameras all over, including the bathroom. There is no space in here that is not viewable by me or my security guards at any time. As for your family, I suppose they will just have to wonder what became of their little mind reader."

"They'll be looking for me."

"I'm sure they will. Take it easy today, Mr. Green. I'll start sending you information tomorrow for you to read."

With that, he left. Gibson stood and took stock of his new abode. Everything was new and immaculate. The furniture in the sitting room was black leather and very comfortable. A flat screen TV sat against one wall, and a quick check of channels revealed full satellite options, with stations from the U.S. Bookcases lined the sides of the TV, but contained nothing that he wanted to read. The space flowed uninterrupted to a sleeping area, with a large, new bed, more comfortable than anything he'd slept on in years. The kitchen counters were black marble, the panty, refrigerator and freezer stocked with a wide variety of food, and a brand new microwave stood ready to help him forget how to do any real cooking. The bathroom held a large tub and shower, with a clear shower curtain, and some sort of fancy Japanese toilet that slightly intimidated him.

He knew what was going on, what Mr. Diaz was trying to do, and right now, it was totally working. When had he ever known such luxury? He certainly had no desire to trade his family in for it, but for the moment, it felt good to just relax. He would start working on a plan to escape after a good, long nap in his new bed with its silk sheets.

_You are a curious fellow_, read the note left under his door the next morning. _I hope your inspection found to your liking. If anything is missing, do not hesitate to let me know. Please remember we are watching you. Any interference with the cameras will result in immediate entry into your rooms, as well any suspicious behavior. Think of yourself as a guest, and as long as you don't abuse your privileges, you will be well treated. Enjoy the report, and if you have any questions, please jot them down on a sheet of paper and place it back in this envelope, which can be slid under the door. _

The report he had been given was about fifty pages long with tiny print. He fell asleep on the couch within two pages. He was awoken by the phone.

"I do not think you understand the seriousness of your job, or the repercussions you will face if you fail to perform satisfactorily."

"But I don't want to work for you. I don't want to read that boring report. I just want to go home. I want to see my family at Christmas. I didn't ask to work for you."

"I'm not really interested in what you want. I bought you; you work for me now. I expect the report to be read thoroughly and notes to be taken. If you have not completed this task by 7 pm tonight, someone will be sent in to clear your apartment of food, and it will not be returned until I decide your behavior has improved. Do I make myself clear?"

Gibson clenched his jaw.

"I do not like the look on your face. If you are looking for a fight, you might regret that. Do we have an understanding, Joshua?" he asked, using the first name on Gibson's fake passport. Courtesy had been dropped down a notch.

"Yes sir." The line went dead.

He tried to read, but still found it boring. It was far worse than any homework assignment Monica had ever given him, but he still tried to approach it as such. Somewhere about halfway through, a little voice in his head told him to put away his anger over being taken, his anxiety over the next threatening phone call, his bad attitude at being forced to do something he didn't want. The voice told him to pay attention to what he read, for clues as to where he was and information he could use to escape.

The company was called Espana Ventures, with its home offices in Spain, but smaller branch offices in several countries all over the globe. Mr. Diaz was apparently one of three brothers and one sister. Upon their father's death, it seemed he had been given operations in Mexico and South America, one brother America and Canada, the other Spain and Europe, and their sister Russia and Asia.

If Mr. Diaz had been pleased to know Gibson was American, it made Gibson wonder if he was trying to take over his brother's share of the company, if not those of all of his siblings. He made a mental note and started trying to read even further between the lines. The company seemed to have its hands in everything, from telecom ventures to transport to drug licensing in third world countries, and even to manufacturing and farming. Why he would want to control all of that, Gibson did not know. It seemed like operations in Mexico and the smattering of countries throughout South America were more than enough to keep one quite busy, but then, it was probably more of a matter of keeping one's pockets full.

Home offices were located in Mexico City, and Gibson felt his heart stir, for he hoped he really was that close to Monica and John. But there were plenty of satellite offices through the country. The jet ride had been too short to have taken him too far, but it was possible he not in Mexico at all, but in Guatemala, where there was an office. Before he knew it, it was already after 9. He had not made too many notes, for the things that interested him most were what he did not wish to call attention to, but he had made it through the report at least three times.

There was no reward for his improved behavior. The next several weeks only brought more reports, more information, more threats when he fell victim to the TV (it was finally disconnected after he slacked on writing up a report for Diaz to show that he had a thorough understanding of the company), and no visits from anyone. Food only came in when he was asleep, and the few clothes he'd been provided with were taken away to be laundered. Cleaning was done by him, and the penalties for failing to maintain the expected appearances were just as swift as for failing to do his other work.

Gibson turned 21 when 2009 began. He was alone. There were not presents, not well wishes, no drinks to celebrate (even though he'd been of legal drinking age in Mexico for some time, he still had been looking forward to passing this American milestone.) Instead, he sat and started trying to plan his escape.

When the New Year came, Inez began to believe she might have done something wrong. She had thoroughly expected to be in a new home with new parents and new toys by now. But no one had come to rescue her. Every night, as she lay at foot of the bed she shared with her brothers, she would repeat the phone number like a prayer, as though merely thinking of the numbers would magically connect her thoughts to theirs. She grew sadder, and consequently whinier, which lead to a painful whipping from her mother, who had then chased her out of the house and told her not to come home until it was dark. She wandered the streets for an hour, crying the whole time, before she caught sight of a payphone. It might be worth a try.

She waited nearby for the right stranger to approach and saw a man who wore glasses and bore a passing resemblance, in her eyes at least, to the man who promised her a new life. She followed him a few feet and then ran up and pulled on his sleeve. He looked down at the filthy creature with instant disgust and then reached to make sure he still had a wallet. She was unaware.

"I need to call someone, but I don't think I did it right the last time. And I don't know what the numbers look like. If I tell them to you, can you push the buttons?"

The man's eyes tightened up with skepticism. "Who are you calling?"

"My friend's parents. My father took him away, but he said if I call his parents, they will come rescue both of us. And they have a little girl for me to play with and a swimming pool and lots and lots of toys!" Her eyes began to sparkle as she pictured the delightful world she'd dreamed up over the last few weeks.

"Do you have money?"

"No."

"Well, you need money to place the call."

"I am supposed to punch in my numbers and then I can talk to the man's parents."

"This sounds very unbelievable."

She looked at him with her large brown eyes, this child clad only in a large t-shirt and a pair of torn jeans, no shoes despite the December chill, and he thought, "What the hell?" He even pulled out a few coins from his pocket and dialed the number directly for her.

"Reyes residence," came a woman's voice on the phone.

"Hello. I'm standing here with a little girl who wants to speak to the parents of a man who might be missing. She seems adamant that he's in trouble, but I think someone might be tricking her."

"Put her on please."

She took the receiver in her hands. The man who dialed for her kindly tipped the mouthpiece back up to her mouth each time she let it slip down to her neck.

"Hello there," said a woman's voice.

"Hello," replied Inez.

"What is your name?" asked the woman, her voice warm and caring.

"Inez. Are you the man's mother?"

"What man, sweetie?"

"The man that my father took."

"Do you know what his name is?"

"No, he never told me."

"But he told you to call me?"

"He told me to call his parents and that you would come here and rescue us."

"Where are you?"

"Seybaplaya," she said, speaking each syllable separately. "My mother is Manuela. She owns a restaurant called Manuela's."

"Does she?" asked the woman with bemusement. "Is that where he is?"

"No, Papa took him away, but I don't know where he went."

"Do you know why your Papa took him?"

"He knows what people are thinking," said Inez, oblivious to the man in the booth with her. He looked at her with confusion, but chalked it up to childish fantasies. This was definitely one of the strangest things that had ever happened to him.

"Inez, you did a good job calling us, ok? That is very brave of you. My name is Monica. I'm going to send my husband down to help you, ok? His name is Juan," she said, realizing that the name John might be a bit too foreign for the girl. "I need you to keep this a secret. Can you do that for me? Don't tell your parents."

"I can keep secrets real good."

"I bet you can. You seem like a very smart little girl. Just hang tight for a day or two, ok? Juan will come as soon as he can."

"Monica?"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Do you really have a little girl?"

"Yes, I do, but she's a bit younger than you."

"And you have lots of toys?"

Monica laughed. "Did he tell you that?"

"Yeah. He said there would be a little girl to play with and lots of toys and a swimming pool."

Monica closed her eyes and smiled, trying not to tear up. "Yes, Inez, we do." She didn't have the heart to tell the girl they could not just take her away, but she also did not know the situation. If Gibson was telling her that she could come home with them, he must have had a reason for it. Perhaps at the very least, John could get her into the hands of some authorities who might be able to provide her with the help that she needed. "Remember Inez, you need to keep this a secret. Don't tell anyone. My husband Juan will come tomorrow. He's very tall and has blue eyes, and he's very, very nice."

"Ok. I'm going to go wait for him." She handed the phone to the gentleman in the booth with her, who threw out another look of laughing uncertainty and hung up the phone.

Inez spent the remainder of the day not hiding in her corner, but instead, watching out the window expectantly. She fell asleep there, dragging her blanket over to keep herself warm, and awoke before the sun rose. When she spotted a tall man standing outside the restaurant, looking up, she tore through the room and down the stairs, past the tables full of patrons eating, and running right up to him as he walked in. "Are you Juan?"

His face broke into a smile and he knelt before her, speaking in a low whisper. "Are you Inez?" She nodded. "And this is your mother's restaurant?" Another nod. "Your father kept Joshua here?" She had never heard his name, real or fake, but still she nodded.

"Inez!" called Octavio from the kitchen. "Go upstairs and quit bothering people."

She glared at him. "I'm not bothering him. He's my friend."

Enrique strode over from one of the tables and took her by the arm. "Go upstairs like you were told. You're not supposed to be down here."

"That's no way to treat a child," said John, his eyes hard and challenging.

Enrique at thirteen was still not able to stand up to him and released the girl. "Whatever," he said and walked away.

"Who are those boys?"

"My brothers. I don't like them. They're mean."

"Let's go somewhere else then and you can tell me what you know about who took Joshua and where they might have gone. Go grab a jacket first. It's chilly out there."

She shrugged. "Don't got a jacket."

Without a second thought, he shook his off and wrapped it around her. "C'mon kid, let's find a nicer place to sit and talk."


	76. Chapter 76

He bought her a plate of food and a cup of hot chocolate and began teasing out what she knew. John would have been surprised to know that she barely spoke a word at home, and since she rarely left her home, she had very little cause to talk at all. Now, she could barely be kept on task, for she wanted to talk about everything, most specifically her plans for what her new parents could buy for her.

Monica had warned him of this. She looked at it as though Gibson's promise to her was nothing more than goodwill on his part, but John wasn't so sure. Either Gibson had either callously manipulated her into helping him, or there was something more that they were missing. And if he was just trying to save her from what already appeared to be an unhappy home life, then maybe there were clues in that home life that would lead to his whereabouts.

"It's not that easy to take you away from your mother and father. There are rules about this sort of thing. Even if your parents are ok with you leaving, the rules may not let you leave."

"But what if I want to leave? Don't I get to decide?"

"Not exactly. But if things are really bad and we tell the police, then maybe they can help get you a new family."

"Nah, I want your family. He was nice. What was his name again?"

"Joshua."

"Yeah, that's a weird name."

"How old are you, Inez?"

"Eight."

It stunned him. The child was so malnourished that she could easily have passed for a five-year-old. He didn't think it would be too hard to prove neglect when he took her to the police. Whatever child services they had in these parts would have no choice but to remove her. Whether or not a simple bribe would be enough to place her back with her family was another matter though.

"And you said your father took Joshua?"

"Yeah. Selena helped him. And Enrique. And stupid old Salvador. And my mother. Maybe everyone helped him. Except me. I am helping Joshua!" She grinned.

John felt a sense of relief. The child may be young, but she was probably a wealth of knowledge. "Ok, tell me about the first time you heard about Joshua."

"I was playing under the bed and Papa was giving Selena her shot and he said that she needed to bring that boy over so that he could capture him and that they would put sleeping medicine in his food and then Selena would give him the shot and then Papa would be able to sneak in and take him away," she said, barely stopping to breathe. "Then they talked a lot about money and Selena got mad because she wanted more and then she said she wouldn't help and then Papa said he'd give her more but Mama would be unhappy because she was going to have to keep him in the apartment until someone would pay money for him. He was really mad at her, and he said that he wished I was older so that I could do the job, because I'm his daughter so that means I have to listen to what he says, and if he says I cannot have the money, then I have to say OK." She paused for a few bites of food.

"Who is Selena?"

"Cousin."

"Do you know how she met Joshua?"

"She heard him in a bar and was curious and talked to him. Then he gave her money and they spent the night together."

John's sighed and looked up at the ceiling. The boy had chosen to spend his months of freedom living it up with whores. He realized his folly at holding back during the sex talk of two years earlier, but also realized that even if he had brought it up, Gibson might not have listened.

"And why was your father giving your cousin a shot? Is she sick?"

"No. We all get shots. Papa doesn't want us to hear."

"What doesn't he want you to hear?"

"What people are thinking."

"Was this the same kind of shot that Selena gave Joshua?"

"Yeah."

"So your father thinks that he can hear people's thoughts?"

"He knows he can. He can hear them too. You can get a lot of money for people like us. He's always telling Enrique he's going to sell him since he's lazy, but Mama says no, 'cause Mama's even more lazy and if he goes away, then she'll have to get up and work."

John leaned back in his chair and though, _Shit_. No wonder Gibson promised the kid a one-way ticket out of there. Her future would be one of human slavery, quite possibly prostitution. John wasn't sure how he would be able to protect her, but it sounded like the shots were not a permanent cure, and that in time, she might regain her mind reading skills and use them to protect herself.

"Alright, kid, this is what I'm going to do. Like I said, there are rules about who kids live with, and usually, kids have to live with their parents. But I'm going to do everything I can to find out how to get you some new parents."

She looked up with wide eyes that were suddenly brimming with tears. "But I want to be in your family."

"I know. But the rules are the rules. And I'll do what I can. Right now, though, I need to find Joshua. Your father can read minds?" The child nodded. "Well, that's going to complicate things. What about your cousin and your brothers? You think they might know where he is?"

"Maybe. Dunno."

"But they get the shots, so they can't read my mind, right?"

"Right."

"And where's your father now?"

"With his other family."

"Where do they live?"

"Dunno."

"In this town?" 

"Nah, far away, I think."

"Does he like you? Are you his favorite child?"

"Uh-uh. I don't think he likes any of us. Maybe Enrique, 'cause he's already being mean to him, but then he changes his mind and tells him he's smarter than Octavio and he'll pass on the business to him when he's grown up."

"Good. I can work with that. Here's what I need you to do…"

Later that evening, towards closing time, John returned to Manuela's, asking for a table.

"You're not welcome here. And we're about to close."

"Just want a beer, kid."

"Go buy one at a cantina."

"Then dessert. What have you got?"

Enrique looked to the kitchen, and John knew he had the kid. "Um, I think we still have some flan."

"Perfect. I'll take that and a Dos Equis, and I'll even pay now so you don't have to wait for me to finish."

John ate his flan slowly, waiting until he was the sole customer in the restaurant. Soon after, Inez snuck downstairs and hid around the corner. John called Enrique back and Inez went to tell Octavio that their mother wanted to see him upstairs. As soon as the elder brother had disappeared and the younger had come skulking over, John had him on the floor in a headlock, with one hand clasped tightly over his mouth.

"Enrique, I need you to cooperate here. Keep quiet, do what I say, and I won't hurt you. You understand me?" The boy nodded.

Five minutes later, he was tied up in the backseat of John's rental truck, and he and Inez were driving off to a neighboring town. It did offend every one of John's sensibilities to have to operate so illegally. But the police were not to be trusted and there was no way to help a young man who was legally dead and no longer existed.

He tied the kid up, offering up a thousand apologies while doing so, inside the room. Inez was still a problem. She was too young to leave alone, but he didn't want to take her with him on the next part of his plan. But he also didn't want to leave her brother unattended, in case there were any emergencies. So as much as he hated it, he left her in charge.

"Watch TV, ok? And if your brother starts to holler, just turn up the volume to cover the noise." Inez nodded and turned a serious eye to the television set, while John doubled checked the ropes holding the boy down and the bandana tied around his mouth. "I'll be back real soon, Enrique. I just need to let your father know that I've got you and I will hand you over as soon as he gives me back my son."

Back in Seybaplaya, John began his search for Selena. At the third cantina, John strode up to the bar, leaning over casually, and asked the bartender if there was a girl named Selena around. The man nodded his head in the direction of a young woman who was surveying a crowd of men at a pool table. John took a seat a few spaces away from her. He acknowledged her with a nod, touched the brim of his hat, and turned back to the bartender. "Bohemia for me, and something for the lady." Selena moved over next to him, but waved off the beer.

"How are you doing this evening?" she asked.

"Doing just fine. Yourself?"

"Well enough. You seem a bit lonely. Did you need some company?"

"Company would be nice."

Selena noticed his wedding ring, but paid it no attention. It was far rarer for her to find a customer who wasn't married. "What brings you to this town?"

"Honestly? You. I've heard a great deal about you."

She laughed, but it was the laugh of a cautious woman in the midst of a business transaction, fake and cold. "Really, my prowess has spread beyond this little town? I find that hard to believe."

John took a long drink, staring off in the other direction. "Nah. I've heard you were gifted at… reading people. That you're very adept at what you do. Thought maybe it would be beneficial to get to know you."

"Ah."

"I hear you have a pretty powerful uncle too. I'd like to do business with him, if you'd be willing to pass that along to him."

She threw out another laugh. "I am not a messenger. If you wish to contact my uncle, you need to do that yourself."

"I'm not exactly sure how to do that, you see."

"Then I don't think you truly want to do business with my uncle." She stood up, but John grabbed her by the arm.

"Tell your uncle I very much want to do business with him. Tell him I've got something that he wants and he's got something that I want."

Selena narrowed her eyes at him. "You took Enrique and Inez."

"I took the boy. The girl came of her own free will. And when your uncle is ready to do business, then I will gladly hand over the boy as payment for services rendered."

"My uncle is not a kind man. He does not play such games well. Neither do I."

"And neither do I."

"I'll see if he wants to meet you."

"No. I know what he can do. I don't want to go anywhere near him. You're now the liaison."

"Uh-uh. I don't work for you."

John took five hundred pesos from his pocket. "Now you do. I'll meet you here tomorrow, same time, and you can tell me what your uncle has decided."

It was late when he returned. The girl was asleep with the remote control still in her hand, and the boy was busy shooting daggers in John's direction. There was only one bed, and even though she was the tiniest and probably slept the hardest, John tucked her under the covers. "Looks like the floor for us, kid."

He bought them all breakfast in the morning, but as soon as he ungagged Enrique, the boy began to speak. "My father is going to kill you."

"I don't think that's likely."

"Then you know nothing about my father."

"Does your father scare you?"

Enrique didn't know what to say and squared his jaw to keep a façade of fearlessness.

"Is he mean to you? Does he beat you? Do you wish you could run away sometimes? Do you want a better life?" John asked, but question after question, the boy kept his silence.

Inez watched carefully. Only when she was sure that John was finished and her brother would not speak, she finally opened her mouth. "I want a better life. I want nice parents. Papa hits Enrique a lot. Smacks him on the head, kicks him. Once he beat him with a belt because he didn't want to take the medicine."

"Shut up, Inez."

"I don't want him to come with us though. He's mean to me. He hits me, hard. So he can stay here, ok?"

"Don't worry. We're trading him for Joshua. I just think he needs to know that he doesn't have to put up with it. That he can speak up and get help."

"I don't need any help from a motherfucking asshole gringo!"

"Boy, you better watch your mouth."

"Eat shit and die!"

"Alright, that's it. Breakfast is over, gag is going back on."

The boy wriggled but was no match for John. "You need to learn some manners. Ain't right for a boy your age to be swearing like that, and certainly not in front of a little girl."

"I like him better when he's gagged."

John headed into town a little early that evening. Before he left the truck, he made a quick call to Monica. They were still afraid of wiretapping, and consequently did not speak about any important matters over the phone, but they both needed their reassurances that the other was ok. "I think it's going to work out, Mon. I should have a good idea by tonight, maybe tomorrow night at the soonest. Kiss Vera, for me, will ya?"

He slipped around the back of Manuela's, careful not to be seen. There was a lot of rubbish that had obviously been collecting for a while, aside from the general restaurant waste. After a few minutes of digging, he found a worn plastic bag with a pair of Gibson's jeans and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. That was all that was left of his possessions.

Further out in town, he asked if there was a place that sold motorcycles, and was directed to a small dirt lot with a few cars and trucks, as well as motorcycles and scooters. None looked to be in good shape, and none of the motorcycles were Gibson's. The salesman came meandering out to John. "Yeah, you want to buy something?"

"I was looking for a bike, but I don't think any of these will work for me. I was hoping to find something more like a Honda."

"Just had one come in a few weeks ago, but I already sold it."

"Damn. Who'd you sell it to?"

"Some kid up the road. He's getting married soon, wanted a car but could only afford the bike."

"The guy that sold you the bike, you think he's got another one? Think maybe you could give me his name so I can go talk to him?"

"Oh, I'm sure Tomaso doesn't have another bike. At least not here. I think he's got lots of cars and trucks over in Campeche, where he lives. People say he's rich. Never sold anything through me though until this bike."

"Well, that's a shame. Thanks for your help."

Tomaso. Campeche. He had a first name and a city. John tried in vain to find anyone who had seen Gibson, but just as he feared, the young man had done a decent job of staying out of sight and not talking to anyone, other than the whore Selena, who was the last person in town he should have gotten involved with.

John was nervous, he had to admit, sitting at the bar, for he had long since given up carrying a weapon. Tomaso had the upper hand, and all John could do was hope that the man was still thirty kilometers away and therefore unable to read John's worried mind. And if John had learned anything while living with Gibson, it was that the moment he was not supposed to think something in a particular person's presence, that was the very thing that he would think about. If Tomaso walked in at that very moment, he would have known everything – that John was scared and defenseless, that he was a former FBI agent with a wife and child at home, that the supposed Joshua Green was really Gibson Praise, a boy wanted by people who had more money than Mr. Diaz could dream of. John breathed out heavily with relief when Serena walked in and sat at his table.

"My uncle says he won't do business with you unless it's in person."

"So he's fine with not getting his son back?"

"Are you?"

"I think you're bluffing me. I think maybe you didn't even talk to your uncle. Maybe you're just hoping I'd give you even more money."

She began to stare him down, until her eyes softened a bit. "My uncle is a cruel man," she said in a whisper. "I don't approve of what he's done. I didn't want him to do it. But he rules over us with an iron fist. If I could help you, I would, but I am powerless. I urge you to let my cousins go, or just tell me where they are and I will go find them. It is in your best interest, because if my uncle finds you, he will kill you. You have his children, so the police will have no problem believing him to be in the right. You should just go home to your family and forget about all this."

"You think I'm just going to turn my back on… my son? You can take that advice of yours and…" John took a deep breath and tried to cool down. "Tell your uncle I will release his son only if he tells me where mine is. That is the only condition. It's a fair exchange." He stood up from the table. "And if you think for a moment I'm buying your bullshit about you disliking what your uncle did, think again. I don't need to read minds to know when a woman is lying. I'll give your uncle a few days to think about it." With that, he was gone.

Back at the hotel, he had just started to untie Enrique's hands so that he could eat the tacos John had brought, when there was a knock at the door. "I told you my father would kill you," said Enrique, his voice still cold and angry. John looked at Inez, put a finger to his lips, and pointed to the bathroom. But there wasn't time for her to hide, for Enrique had already started yelling to his father that he was inside, and there followed heavy thuds at the door. For a second, just before the door flew open, he thought to use the boy as a shield, but if it backfired, if Tomaso didn't care, then he would have sacrificed the boy for naught. Besides, John wasn't about to put the kids' lives in danger, and so he stood his ground as Tomaso Mendoza made his way in, pistol pointed at John.

Unbeknownst to John, Mendoza had been in the bar, reading his every thought. He knew exactly where his children were and he had no qualms with killing this white man who might be irritating in his quest to find the young man who wasn't even his son.

John's hands flew up automatically at the sight of the gun. "I just want my son back, Tomaso. Just tell me where Joshua is."

"I know Gibson isn't your son. And I know now that I erred in selling him for as little as I did. But what's done is done, and I'm just here for my kids."

No sooner had John opened his mouth to speak, than Mendoza squeezed the trigger and John felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He fell backwards. When he tried to move, he could only lift his head for a second, just in time to see Mendoza walk out with Enrique beside him and a kicking, screaming Inez under his arm. His head began to swim and it fell back with a heavy thud. He touched his abdomen and found the gaping bullet hole from which blood was pouring out. With infinite strength, he pulled his phone from his pocket and sent his wife a text, for he knew he was not strong enough to speak. _Shot_, he wrote. _Sihochac_. He lay still for a while, trying to call out, and wondered why no one had come running at the sound of gunfire. The phone rang, but he could not lift it, and he couldn't see anything any longer. He knew he needed to stay conscious, but the blood loss was getting to be too much, and his eyelids seemed to have 200-hundred-pound weights attached to them. He wanted to tell his wife that he loved her, but all he could do was repeat it in his head until he drifted off.


	77. Chapter 77

It took a lot of effort for him to wake up. There was a persistent noise off in the distance, but the harder he listened, the more tired he grew. When he woke again, he noticed it was rhythmic, and he kept telling himself that every third pulse, he would open his eyes, but his eyes wouldn't open, and then he fell asleep again. The third time, his eyes seemed to open before he'd put any work into it at all, and there was Monica, squeezing his hand, calling out his name. He tried to smile, but he wasn't sure he'd pulled it off, but he knew he'd squeezed her hand right back.

The next time he regained consciousness, he was aware that the sound in the background was a heart monitor. He was in a hospital. Monica wasn't by his bedside, but he found he had enough strength to survey the room. There were three other beds, all occupied. Just outside, through the window, he could see his wife, holding a young girl and talking to a man in a suit. John called to his wife, but his voice disappeared amidst the beeping and whirring of so many machines in one room. The man in the suit noticed, though, and pointed. Monica flew to his side.

She was crying with relief, brushing his hair back, kissing his hands. "That was a stupid, stupid thing to do, John Doggett. You are not supposed to leave me a widow. What were you thinking?"

"Must find Gibson," he said, in a barely audible voice. "Didn't expect it to go so wrong. Tomaso Mendoza. He took Inez. Gotta get her back too."

"She's here. She's fine. And she saved your life."

"Don't understand."

"She claims she bit him and he dropped her. She took off running and that eventually she ran into a man that she knew. He got you in a taxi and to the clinic in Sihochac, and they've both stayed with you, even after the transfer to Campeche."

"Can't stay here. The man who shot me lives here. We need to get back to Mexico City."

"You're in no shape to be transported anywhere. Not for a few more days."

"He'll kill me. You. That man out there. We've gotta go." If he could have gotten up himself, he would have.

Monica looked at the child in the hall. She had already gotten the gist of the story but no one knew that Inez's father lived in this city. It would indeed prove to be dangerous for them all. But John's doctors said would need to stay in hospital for at least another day, if not two, and immediate transport was out of the question. The child could be whisked away, though she was still adamant that her place was with the Doggett family, despite Monica's gentle warnings that such a thing might be impossible.

The man who stood out in the hall seemed attached to her, though Inez did not recognize it. He had told Monica over the last twenty-four hours that he and his wife had wanted children, but God had not seen fit to bless them with one. He had first met the little girl in Seybaplaya when she needed help using a phone – "To call you!" he'd exclaimed – and he considered it fortuitous to have run into her again back in Sehochac. His name was Ricardo, and he was a traveling salesman, going from one small town to the next through the Yucatan Peninsula, trying to sell whatever his company deemed important that week. At the moment, it was cleaning products, but next month he was slated to learn about kitchen knives. He hated his job, for it kept him away from his wife for long stretches of time, but they were close to having enough money for fertility help. Inez, with her mat of tangled hair and her complete lack of education had somehow stolen his heart. "It's those eyes; they look right inside you, like she knows you already."

Monica tried to explain this to John but he would have none of it. "You don't know him. We can't trust him."

"We can't keep that child."

"I know. But maybe for a little while. Until she can read minds again."

Monica shushed him, for he did not have his own room, though she doubted anyone had heard him above the hum and swish of the machines. "Alright, I'll find a place for her. But this man seems very interested in adopting her, to the point where he might be willing to leave the country. If she gets to a point where she can determine who he really is, then we will let her decide."

In the flurry of hours that followed, Monica arranged transport for the little girl to an undisclosed location, assured Ricardo that she would contact him when it was safe (she had not yet explained to him that it was entirely possible the child could read minds), and she had managed to get approval to move John closer to Mexico City the next morning. She kept vigil by his bedside all night, missing the days when she could have done so while armed, but there was no trouble.

A week later, he was well enough to come home to finish recuperating in bed. He pushed himself for than Monica liked, and even popped a few stitches in his hurry to get moving again. Monica was just relieved that he would be fine.

Inez had been shipped off to Julia's while they waited to see if she truly was a mind reader. John was still recuperating when she got the frantic call from her cousin. "Is there something wrong with this child?" asked Julia.

"Besides the abuse and neglect she's suffered over the years?"

"Yes, Monica. Besides all that. I think you are not telling me something. I think there's a very particular reason why you are hiding her here with me."

"I told you I was hiding her from her father and the officials. What's going on?"

Julia didn't answer for a long time. "Would you think I was crazy if I told you I thought she was psychic? You wouldn't, would you? I mean, you used to investigate unexplained things for the FBI, so this wouldn't be strange, right?"

"How is she doing otherwise?"

"Otherwise? You knew, didn't you? You need she could read people's thoughts."

Monica sighed into the phone. "I knew there was a possibility."

"Possibility? Monica, it's an improbability. People don't read minds."

"How is she doing, though?"

"Putting on weight as she tries to eat me out of house and home. Stubborn as can be. We've been trying to get her to learn how to read and write, but she refuses. She was real quiet the first week, but now she throws a tantrum or breaks into uncontrollable sobs at least once a day. I'm not sure I can put up with her much longer. I think the worst is still yet to come. At some point she's going to come to terms with whatever hell she was living in, and then we're going to have a real nightmare on our hands. Plus, she simply doesn't want to be here. She keeps insisting that some boy named Ya-su-ah promised that she could live with you and John and Vera. Oh, and don't even get me started on what she's picking out of the brains of everyone around her. I finally had to separate her yesterday from the other children, because she's starting to use it as ammunition against us. Do you know what she told my husband? It's too embarrassing to even admit. Monica, we've got to do something with her, something that doesn't involve her staying here any longer."

"I'm going to come for a visit and bring someone with me, someone who is interested in raising her as his own, though he doesn't know about the mind reading, and I'm not sure he, or anyone for that matter, would be willing to take on a child such as her."

"God help him and bless him if he does. But she's got to go."

They came that weekend, Monica, Vera, and Ricardo. Inez, despite Julia's less than exemplary report, looked almost like another child, clean, well groomed, well kempt, and plumper. But she took one look into Monica's mind and knew that what she wanted was not to be. "You're not going to keep me, huh? You're gonna give me to this man."

"Only if you think he would be a good father. I want you to really pay attention to what he thinks and let me know if he's telling the truth, ok?"

Inez did as she was told, and Ricardo passed the test with flying colors, though once it was revealed what Inez could do, he was nervous. "You've waited a long time for a child, right?" Monica asked him. "Perhaps she is what you've been waiting for, even though she's not quite what you imagined. Just keep in mind that she is an extraordinary little girl, and with your help, she will turn into an extraordinary woman." With less enthusiasm than desired, Ricardo and Inez agreed to the deal, and Ricardo agreed to take his wife and the child out of the country, and to live in as much seclusion as possible, for her safety.

Gibson's whereabouts still remained a mystery, and while Monica and John did what they could to find out more about the identity of the man who took him, they were far more cautious in their investigations. The man was an enemy they could not outpace in person.

Gibson, meanwhile, was learning the ins and outs of his new, unwanted job. It had taken over two months, but he felt like himself again. There were very few opportunities to practice though, for he was very far removed from other people. He now no longer believed himself to be in Mexico City, for he could not sense anyone in the vicinity. He had never really tested his range, but he figured it was around half a mile. It perplexed him greatly that someone was supposedly guarding him nearby. If something went wrong, then it would be a few minutes, at the very least, before anyone could reach him.

"How secluded am I?" he asked Mr. Diaz on the phone one day.

Mr. Diaz laughed. "You are not nearly as secluded as you think. And if you want verification that there are men with guns right outside, I can give you that." He bade Gibson sit on the couch, his hands visible. A few seconds later, a key entered the lock, the doorknob turned, and a man with a very intimidating gun entered, training his weapon on a wide-eyed Gibson. Another man held his ground just outside the door. They were both wired, nodded, and then stepped back, locking Gibson up again.

"Why can't I read them? I thought I was ok again."

"Ah, that little shot it pretty beneficial in keeping you out of their minds too. Expensive stuff, but just part of the cost of keeping you."

He would soon learn that not everyone was as off limits as his guards. Nearly three months into his captivity, he was instructed that it was time to start proving his worth and earning his keep. His silent minded guards led him from his rooms and down a long series of concrete hallways and stairwells to an elevator that took them from the 55th floor to the 20th. He could feel more and more thoughts coming at him as he walked – an administrator tired of the tasks her boss expected of her, a computer tech wishing he were brave enough to try to sabotage the company and rake in a little money for himself, a businessman on the phone trying to keep his voice calm while a deal was falling through. Gibson would see none of this, for he was being led through passageways behind the walls of whatever office building he apparently lived in.

Finally, they entered a dark room with a window looking into a meeting room. A man sat at the large polished mahogany table trying to look casual as his mind raced with fears and worries about why he was being left in the room alone for so long.

"This is my director of operations in Guatemala," said Mr. Diaz through the headset Gibson had to wear. "Someone is going to come in and speak to him. I need you to keep me abreast of what Senor Vargas is actually thinking, since I trust nothing that comes out of his mouth."

Gibson watched from the window side as Vargas was questioned. He did his job as promised, pointing out whenever Vargas lied about a transaction or an under the table business dealing. It all seemed pretty mundane to Gibson and he didn't understand why so much scrutiny was being placed on this one person. And then the poor man was asked if he knew anything about a certain deal made by the Asia office, one that he was not supposed to know about. Anyone who had the slightest skill at reading a person could have seen that he knew more than his words admitted to, but it wasn't guilty body language that Mr. Diaz needed – he needed to know what Vargas knew and with whom he was working.

"Your sister promised him a better position if he manipulated the Guatemala deal into a deal for her territory," explained Gibson, giving him as many details as he could gather from the man's mind. He was growing bored – the interview had lasted nearly 90 minutes at this point – and was eager for it to end, though he had nothing to which to return.

"Excellent work. You may return to your rooms."

"What are you going to do to him?" asked Gibson matter-of-factly.

"That is of no concern to you."

Gibson was saddened but not surprised to read in the paper the following week an obituary for Senor Vargas, who had left behind a wife and two grown daughters. It turned his stomach to be responsible for the death, but he knew he had no leverage with Mr. Diaz. He could no sooner say he would stop reading minds, or at least read them only on the condition that no one was hurt because of what he revealed, than he could demand his own freedom and walk out of his rooms. All he could do was vow to keep what he could a secret, but it was a chess game of information during which one wrong piece of information would lead to his death.


	78. Chapter 78

Back in Mexico City, Monica was busy caring for her wounded husband, precocious daughter, and aging father, while balancing her own job as well. John was still pushing himself so hard that every two steps forward he took meant at least one step back as far as his recovery went. Her father seemed so tired and weak to her, but he insisted it was only the cold winter weather wreaking havoc on his old bones. The housekeeper had her hands full, pulling double duty as a nursemaid as well.

One rough morning, after Vera proved that despite being a bit of a miracle child, she was indeed only a toddler who was more than capable of pulling off full-blown tantrums for reasons no greater than not having her favorite cereal for breakfast, Monica made her way into the office, running half an hour late due to the terrible traffic of Mexico City. She quickly settled in, going right to work on the case file in front of her, searching for the number of a local agency that could provide her client with certain basic services to help her get her life back on track after a particularly traumatic kidnapping. Her boss was at her desk before she could start making calls, with a stern look on her face that had Monica apologizing immediately for her late arrival.

Senora Vega was a tall woman in her fifties, heavy set, with a face that rarely smiled, though never looked angry. She had started her agency only ten years earlier, as drug violence and kidnappings had begun to grow so common that even Mexico City was witnessing such acts on a regular basis. In the span of a week, two incidents had hit close to home – her sister had been kidnapped via taxi, an all too common occurrence, and released an hour later after emptying her bank account at the ATM, and her own maid had brutally assaulted while visiting her relatives in northern Mexico. She realized that the women in her country were particularly vulnerable to such acts and that there were no resources for them afterward. Her sister was lucky in that she wasn't harmed, but she was disgusted when the police blamed her for getting herself into such a situation, i.e., being alone and without her husband at the time. Her maid was particularly at a disadvantage, for there was no counseling offered to her, no help from the local police force, and she returned to her job a shattered woman. However, she was fortunate enough to have Senora Vega as her employer, for she had studied psychology at university and was very sensitive to the changes in her employee's behavior.

Though she had no formal training in therapy, her maid became her first client. Within a year, she had a small counseling service. Within two years, she routinely carried a dozen clients at a time, had made connections with some of the few agencies in the city who could help such women, and had hired a licensed therapist to help with the workload. Now, in January of 2009, she was the director of a small army of therapists, two psychiatrists, several case managers such as Monica, a fleet of general office workers, and even a two-person security team.

It was this imposing woman who strode up to Monica's desk, waving off her apologies for being late. "I need to see you in my office. Whatever you're working on now, please hand off to Dafne." She saw the fear in Monica's eyes and quickly assuaged her. "I need you for a different job that you are far more qualified to handle than anyone else in this office."

In her office, she began immediately. "I received a call thirty minutes ago. The voice on the other end of the phone was distorted, disguised, I suppose. He spoke of an attack on a farm up north, that several men from the Rosas cartel had swept into the farm in the middle of the night, attacking the workers. According to this man, many of the men and boys were killed, and several of the women and girls were sexually assaulted. I'm telling you this, Monica, because he asked for you by name. He specifically requested that you come out and provide assistance to them. I explained that it was not your job, but he said that only you would understand what had happened, though he would not tell me why."

"I don't know that I feel comfortable going out there without more information," said Monica, all too aware that the man who had just shot her husband was still free and no doubt very upset at the loss of his daughter.

"I understand. That is why I called the local police, not that they are remotely trustworthy. But they did at least confirm that there was an incident at the farm, though they said the owners, who do not currently reside anywhere near the farm, had specifically requested that they vacate the property and allow them to tend to their workers. The police did not seem bothered by this on many levels, but they also mentioned that no one would speak to them, and they thought that perhaps they did not speak Spanish."

"And what of the men who attacked the workers? Where are they now? Am I to walk into an ambush if I set foot on that farm?"

"That's one of the stranger parts of this whole tale. It seems that they are almost all dead, save a couple who managed to drag themselves away to call for help. They were badly injured, and one died earlier this morning. The other is still clinging to life in a hospital. The remaining members of the cartel are terrified, not something one ever hears of drug cartels, and have taken to calling the farm Satan's plantation. They will not go near it."

"What of the owners? Will they not be angered if we intervene?"

"The mysterious owners have still not arrived to tend to their flock. I can get you on a plane within the hour and have you there by noon. I'm sending Rogelio Peligro out with you. I know you were trained to carry a weapon during your time with the FBI, and while I cannot of course promote the use of a gun while you work for me, I cannot stop Rogelio from bringing an extra one with him."

Monica nodded, feeling a twinge of excitement as a familiar rush came over her. It was a taste of her old life.

"However, I do not want you to feel like you must go. I need to warn you that it is in Durango, and the Rosas Organization is most likely the latest incarnation of the cartel that held you."

Monica's enthusiasm was tempered immediately. It had been nine months since her return and while she felt herself mostly recovered, there were still plenty of triggers that would draw her back to those bleak days. At the same time, she was well aware that she wanted revenge just as badly as they did. Her current job was the closest she could get – a quiet, day-to-day battle against the ravages of the drug war. While walking back onto their turf with nothing more than a gun and a bodyguard made her fear for her life, it also managed to strike a chord within her, reminding her that she was nothing if not brave, willing to risk her life to help others, and more than a little angry.

"I'll go. I can leave now."


	79. Chapter 79

An hour later, she and Rogelio were strapped into their seats on a small chartered jet, the usage of which was the result of a favor called in by Senora Vega. Monica was able to find something that she liked about everyone in her office, but Rogelio was one of the few with whom she had come to develop anything close to a working friendship. He was a bear of a man, two meters tall, and about a meter across of pure muscle – a man never missed a day at the gym. When he needed to, he would stand tall, arms crossed, face unmoving, and no one would ever think twice about messing with him. But Rogelio was a softy at heart, who melted in the presence of little children, delighting them with rides on his broad shoulders and tossing them up into the air like they weighed nothing.

When Monica asked him one day why he didn't have children, he laughed heartily. "Are you the last one in the office to know that I am gay?"

Monica smiled warmly. "I certainly had my suspicions, but it still begs the question."

"One day, perhaps, circumstances might bless me with one. But for now, I've got nieces and nephews galore to dote on."

As they flew, however, he was quickly disrobing himself of his kind-heartedness. He'd come fully armed and was planning to make good use of their two-hour flight time. He sorted through the four handguns he'd brought, triple checking each one, and letting Monica chose the one she felt most comfortable handling. They made the best plan they could, considering they did not know the layout of the farm or the amount of people who were involved. Senora Vega had printed out some blurry satellite images from which they could only make out that there were about five large buildings on the property and possibly smaller standing structures. They made contingency plans in case there was an attack by the Rosas, the farm owners, and even the farm workers.

Still, the moment they stepped out of their vehicle onto the property, they realized they were completely unprepared.

The fields stretched for miles, and dozens of workers could be seen toiling away under white sheets of fabric hung to protect the crops. No one seemed to be anxious or even interested in their arrival.

Monica looked to Rogelio. "What do you think? Do you think it's a trap? Something's not right here."

Rogelio surveyed the land again before wiping his brow with his arm. "I don't know. But I say med kit in one hand, gun in the other."

They made their way towards the first building, which was long and narrow, suggesting a dormitory. Rogelio peeked in and then tried the door. The building was empty, save a dozen bunk beds. As they made their way from building to building, finding the same, workers would pass by from time to time, making eye contact but never seeming the least bit curious about who they were or what they were doing, and never responding when asked if anyone needed help.

"Have you noticed something strange about the workers?" asked Monica, her eyes following a teenaged girl walking with a woman who looked to be in her twenties.

"Oh yeah. I'm starting to feel like we've walked into that old black and white TV show – The Twilight Zone."

"They all look remarkably similar."

"Perhaps they are all in the same family?"

"But to look that much alike…"

"I say we concentrate on finding out if anyone needs help and then we get the hell out of here."

Monica nodded slightly, agreeing despite knowing that she would not be able to walk away without some answers.

"I think I found our victims," said Rogelio. Monica followed him into a dorm, which looked like a scene from a horror film. There was blood everywhere – the floors, the walls, the beds, the women and girls. She felt her knees weaken and immediately thought back to the attack in Durango that had left nothing more than mangled bodies. "You ok there?" asked Rogelio, who had been briefed by Senora Vega of some of the details of Monica's own case so that he could be prepared for any triggers associated.

Monica swallowed hard and tightened her jaw. "I'm good. I'm going to start checking out the girls. You keep watch at the door." She tried her best to engage them in conversation, trying to speak to them in Spanish and English, as well as trying out the little pieces of other languages she knew. None elicited responses. Most of the victims looks remarkably well for having endured an attack just the night before, though the ones residing in the dorm were too injured to go out to work. It was hard to do much for them without being able to communicate.

She was just making her way to a young girl of no more than thirteen when she realized she had stepped in something. She looked down and felt her stomach drop, though she wasn't entirely sure why. The substance on the floor was foreign to her, sticky and slightly green. The large section on the floor that looked like it had been eaten away by the substance startled her even more. She looked around the room for someone sporting more obvious wounds and made her way over to an older woman who had obviously fought against her attacker. Monica pulled out a tongue depressor and latex gloves and began to gently probe a gaping wound on the woman's cheek. She soon pulled away, whimpering, but Monica had seen enough.

"I don't think any of the blood in this room is theirs. I think it must have belonged to the Rosas." She knew more, but realized that she could not say anything without making herself look crazy.

Rogelio nodded but did not look at her. "We've got company. There are at least three SUVs heading this way."

It was too late to make a run for it. All they could do was hang tight, waiting for the inevitable and hoping that whoever was about to arrive would be understanding as to what they were trying to do. They huddled near the window, watching the black vehicles pull up on all sides of their Jeep, so that escape would be impossible. Ten men, some of whom were armed, exited and began to take a few steps in opposite directions, making sure the vicinity was clear. When they seemed to reach a consensus that it was safe, a passenger side door opened and a man in a thin, dark grey trench coat stepped out, his back to Monica. Before he'd even turned around, though, Monica felt a rage boiling up inside of her, and when she did finally see his face, she gave into it.

She strode out the door, weapon in hand, ignoring Rogelio's request to stay put, and walked right up to him. "What the hell are you doing here?" she asked, her voice harsh but controlled, her nostrils flaring in anger.

The man gave a half-smile, the best his disfigured face could manage. Jeffrey Spender waved down his men – Monica had felt no need to regard them as she'd strode towards him – and took a joint and a lighter from his pocket. "I might ask you the very same thing. Agent Reyes, wasn't it?" he asked as he took a hit.

"Did you come to help these girls? Because if you came for any other reason, I think you should leave."

"Help can be defined in so many ways." He took another hit and smiled at her again. "Mexico really does produce some very high quality marijuana."

"I thought you were dead. Six years ago, you told us you were dying."

"Advances in medical science are really quite amazing these days, don't you think? And speaking of rumors, I heard you had left the Bureau after fleeing with that boy. Sorry to hear of his death. It must have been quite a disappointment to invest all those years into protecting him and then losing him the moment you believed you were safe."

"We're not here to talk about me. These workers, they're clones, aren't they? Alien clones?"

He laughed haughtily at her. "Do you really believe in aliens, Reyes?"

"You know what they are. Stop toying with me."

"Mulder would be so pleased to see you turn out just as paranoid as himself."

"Cut the bullshit already. Why are there alien clones working on a farm in the mountains of Mexico? And why the hell are you here?"

"These fine people are nothing more than Eastern European laborers, eager to work the land and send money home to their families."

"Quit lying to me, Spender. I've seen their injuries. I know they're not human. Why are you here?"

"I merely own a share of the farm. I heard there was an attack, and so I came to see for myself the damage. I would ask the same of you though – why are _you_ here?" he asked, offering the joint to her, which she declined with disbelief at his action.

"You didn't call me here?"

"Of course not."

"Someone called my office and told my boss that I needed to come here, to help the women."

"Interesting. I can assure you, though, that we will do everything in our power to see that the workers are properly taken care of. I also ask that you leave this property immediately."

"I'm not going anywhere as long as there are women here who need our help."

"'Our help'? There are more of you here?" he asked, his eyes betraying his uneasiness. His hand reached for his gun, and Monica could see his men grip their weapons tighter.

"Only my bodyguard."

"You were wise to not bring more. Still, he will have to be taken care of."

Monica raised her weapon and cocked it. "If you so much as think about hurting him, I will see to it that you get that death you promised to die so many years ago."

Spender calmly drew on his joint, closing his eyes as the drug sent another wave of tranquility through him. "How much does he know?"

"He doesn't know much at all. I know that he'll think I'm insane if I tell him what is really going on here."

"Good. Why don't you keep it that way. And why don't you get a move on now. We've got the situation under control."

"I came here to help them, and I intend on staying to do so."

"There is nothing you can do for them. You must know that. You would have been of greater service to the drug cartel that attacked them, but sadly, it's too late to help them now."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You were once a good agent. What changed you into the villainous shadow of your father?"

"I've seen the light, so to speak. I've been to hell and back, and what I've seen makes Dante's tale look like a children's book." He'd looked off into the distance, towards the sun that blinded even on this winter day. His reverie did not last long, and he soon looked upon her again with his chilling half-smile. "Now, Reyes, I'd recommend that you vacate the premises immediately of your own accord. I've no desire to bother with more bodies than I must." He turned away from her, giving a slight nod to the men in his entourage. Next thing she knew, both she and Rogelio had guns pressed against their spines as they were walked to their rented Jeep. One of the dark SUVs trailed them on their drive off the farm, following them for another half hour, just to make sure that they were headed back to the airport.

"What the hell was that about?" asked Rogelio on the flight home.

"There's a whole world out there that most people don't know about," she said, sadly. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

For two hours, she spoke of everything she knew, of aliens and clones and supersoldiers, government conspiracies, and men like Spender's father. She leaned back in her seat when she could think of no more, completely spent and unsure if she'd done the right thing in telling him, though she'd still avoided the topic of the impending invasion.

"Holy shit," Rogelio said, looking more than a little stunned. "Were it anyone else telling me such a tale, I would not believe them. But I can't imagine you lying or believing something so inconceivable unless it were true." He looked out the window as they started their descent. "Where can I sign up to fight?" he asked, becoming the first member of the anti-syndicate enlisted in Mexico.


	80. Chapter 80

A/N – First off, I changed Gibson's current alias to Tim. I want to use Joshua Green as his next alias, as it fits better into my future plans for him.

Secondly, hello dear readers! I am hoping that you, (I'm guessing there are only about 10 of you still reading) wouldn't mind giving me some specific feedback. I think I'm going to try this for the next few postings to see if I get any responses. I'd really appreciate a response, but don't feel like you have to do so via a review – I'm not a review whore, but I am a feedback whore. Just send me a private message.

So, this week's homework assignment: Without looking back, tell me one or two of your favorite scenes thus far.

Example answer: that moment in the La Llorona chapter where John swallows his disbelief and the backstory about John and Barbara's divorce and Monica's entanglement in it.

Please play along! I will love you ever so much for it. And if you are worried about your English at all, don't be. I am an ESL teacher and used to all levels of English proficiency, and I don't mind if you write your response in another language. That's what Google translate is for!

* * *

It was now March and Gibson was despondent. He felt himself nothing more than an assassin, though he did not handle the murders himself. On more than one occasion he'd lied about what was known, which so far, when dealing with a guilty party, had led to one of three outcomes: he would be immediately punished, for Diaz had enough dirt on the interviewee to know he was guilty; Diaz would accept his proclamation, especially if it followed so soon after some sort of discipline; or Diaz would accept his words, things would be fine, and then it would be proven otherwise and Diaz would double down on him. As Gibson could not handle the thought of sending mostly decent men to their deaths, he lied as often as he dared.

He had suffered for this accordingly. He still had his little apartment, but he realized this was more out of necessity than anything else – he had to be sequestered to ensure the privacy of those who were no doubt living and working in the same building. But any and all forms of entertainment and distraction were now denied him. Even the daily paper was a thing of the past, essentially cutting him off from the rest of the world. With such deprivation, he felt often that he would go mad. Such severe boredom meant that he would often read Diaz's reports with great interest, though even those reports were growing fewer and farther between.

Gibson felt at times as though he were losing his mind. Some days, he would get transfixed on a moment in his life, repeating the scene over and over again to the point where he would lose himself in the memory, transporting himself out of reality. Other days, his mind would be completely blank and his soul numb. He would sleep for hours on end, wake up to eat something, and then go back to bed, until his head ached from too much sleep. He tried not to talk to himself, knowing that his apartment was being monitored, but as time went on, he began to give into it on occasion, having conversations under his breath with Monica, John, Vera, Mulder, Craig, Lourdes – even Thea, with whom he signed in half-formed hand guestures. His mind would swirl with their images and their voices, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he gave in to it entirely.

After one particular week of no contact with anyone, he lay in his bed at an unknown hour, his lips moving as he spoke soundlessly to Mulder about one of his favorite festivities on the reservation back in New Mexico. It took him a while to hear the telephone and even when he did, he wasn't particularly inclined to get up to answer it, but answer it he finally did.

"That was nearly three whole minutes of my day wasted," said Mr. Diaz. Gibson did not respond, for he was still struggling to separate himself from his imagined conversation with Mulder. "We'll have to think of some sort of punishment for you later. I have news for you. I've received an offer to loan you out. However, I cannot simply accept such offers and part with you suddenly. There is much work involved with such a transaction as you may very well imagine. The first thing we must do, of course, if meet with our client, to learn who he is and what his real motivations are. We certainly don't want you falling into the hands of someone who would treat you poorly, and we want to make sure that you are going to be returned at the end of the contracted time."

Gibson stared dumbly down at the counter, not really sure if he was understanding what was being said or not. What did it mean to be loaned out? Would he get to leave? Would he have a chance to escape? The thoughts ran slowly through his brain, though he did not voice them.

"I need you to ready yourself – shower, shave, dress well, though you will not meet with the client face to face until a later date, proving you find nothing suspect in his thoughts. He will be coming in within the hour, so please start preparing yourself." With that he hung up, though Gibson hung on to the phone for some seconds afterward.

An hour later, he was escorted from his room by the same guards and taken to the same room as usual. A man sat at the same table as all the other men and women Diaz had brought in before. No one else was in the room, until Mr. Diaz's face appeared on the TV screen opposite the man, to interview the client.

Gibson could barely breathe. Fortunately, his normally unanimated face continued to hide the emotions inside, for sitting just twenty feet away from him was a man whose only ambition regarding him was to free him, a man who knew exactly who he was. It didn't matter that his motivations were misguided or that his hopes for a particular reward would never be met.

As the man spoke to Diaz, his demeanor friendly, if a little schmoozy, he also spoke mentally quite clearly to Gibson, knowing full well that he was behind the mirrored window. He explained to him what he needed to say, what story he needed to tell, what secret thoughts Gibson could reveal to prove that he was honestly revealing what he'd read.

This he did after being returned to his room. He shared details of the man's life, things that Diaz already knew but that Gibson had not been told. He spoke of the fake plans that the man had in mind, how long he wanted to keep him, how much he wanted to pay, what Gibson would be expected to do, and how he would ensure that Gibson could not get away. He spoke all of this in his steady, emotionless tone, keeping his pace slow and unenthused.

"Well, then, Tim, my friend. I think we have a deal. We'll have you meet him in person to make sure he has developed no ulterior motives or plans, then we'll have to give you a injection so that you can safely be transported."

"Another shot? But that leaves me vulnerable. What if someone he knows wants to hurt me? How am I supposed to protect myself?" he asked, trying to keep calm. As much as he trusted this man, there was nothing he could do to alleviate those fears.

"You'll be able to ask any questions you need of him before you are given the injection, so do your best to think of what you need to ask. He will return this time next week."

As if to bribe Gibson into wanting to return, all of his original luxuries were replaced for his final week. Though Gibson knew full well what Diaz was doing, he could not help admitting that it made him very happy indeed to have access to TV and movies again, and books and newspapers. His food deliveries included all of his favorite treats and though he didn't want to show it, he often failed to suppress a smile of delight or surprise. At least it would help put Diaz at ease, lulling him into the false belief that Gibson would not only return but do so voluntarily.

Monica had returned to Mexico City, sharing with her father and her husband the events of her trip to Durango. Then she set about spreading the word through their anti-syndicate.

It had started with Jimmy and Yves. Monica and John had been reluctant to start there, given their connection with Morris Fletcher, but begged their discretion in order to have a media platform upon which to spread information when needed, via the Lone Gunmen website. A few of their more trusted geeky friends, including Kimmy who had attended the Lone Gunmen's funeral, had been brought in to varying levels.

Skinner had declined to assist them directly, though he was willing to give them assistance and pass along information when opportunities presented themselves, which was rare, given his position with the FBI. Kersh was in a similar position. John had managed to build a small network of allies, building out from those they knew. There were a handful of scientists, two of whom John was quite sure were certifiably crazy, and three members of the FBI and one from the CIA who were nominated by Kersh. It was still a small assembly, but Monica was proud of the work John had accomplished so quickly. It was no small task to seek these people out and verify that they could be trusted.

Extending from this, she mentally included on the list Shannon, her father, and probably half the visitors to the Lone Gunmen site; though none knew of the anti-syndicate, she felt that each would gladly join in some capacity. What capacities were needed was still a mystery, for there was no solution to their problem.

Nearly two weeks had passed since the events at the farm. The local officials now reported that the farm had been abandoned and no workers remained. All the evidence had no doubt been erased. Still, she had seen it, as had Rogelio. She did not know how to piece it together with anything, she did not know how it fit into the larger scheme for invasion, and she certainly did not know if there was anything useful to be gained from that knowledge, but she was grateful that she had been a witness. Her mysterious tipper still troubled her. She could think of no one who would have sent her there without being open about their identity.

One evening, as she worked late trying to find legal help for a woman who had been forced to work as a drug mule, the phone rang. She looked at the phone a bit puzzled, for it was after hours when the phones were generally silent, and she wasn't expecting a call either. No one else was in the office. The goose bumps prickling her skin did not make her especially anxious to answer, but she did.

"Monica Reyes," she answer, her voice as firm and professional as she could make it.

"I've found Gibson," said a digitalized voice in English. It was the same person who had contacted Senora Vega.

"Who is this?"

"I know where he is, but I have not been able to see him with my own eyes."

"Gibson is dead," she said, finally remembering that for his safety she had to continue with the ruse.

"Now, now, let us stop pretending. Of course Gibson Praise is still alive. And I know where he's being held. I've arranged to procure his services and I am to take possession of him next week. I am willing to hand him back over to your care."

"What do you want from me?"

"I will discuss my terms when we meet."

"I won't agree to a meeting with someone who won't reveal his identity."

"You'll agree to a meeting if I have the young man in my custody."

"Who are you?"

"An old friend, Monica. Come armed, if it makes you feel better, but leave your bodyguard behind this time. Once I have him, I'll contact you again to arrange a meeting. In the meantime, do not discuss this with anyone, not even John."

"Tell me your name!" she demanded with a slight edge of exasperation, but the only sound she heard in response was a dial tone.

The appointed day for Gibson's release into the man's custody came. He had decided that there was nothing he wanted to ask of the man, other than how soon they could get out of there, which he certainly wasn't going to ask. He readied himself and packed a small bag according to Diaz's instructions. His giddiness at his escape was difficult to hide, but he had to maintain his distant, emotionless façade.

They met briefly, shaking hands. Diaz called in to confirm that the man was still trustworthy, and Gibson promised that he was. The injection was administered, and Gibson fell back into his chair from the burst of pain. By the time Diaz arrived an hour later, he felt mostly recovered, though more subdued given his hobbling.

Diaz spoke briefly with the man and had him sign a contract, which probably specified terms of payment and length of employment. He stood up to take his leave and nodded to one of Gibson's guards. Apparently, they would have company. The man praised Diaz for his forethought and generosity.

The three men stepped into a chauffeured car, its windows tinted black, and began to drive. There was little conversation. Half an hour after they left, they took the exit for Monterrey's airport. Gibson was disheartened to learn that he hadn't been taken to Mexico City after all, and that it would still be a wait before he would get to see Monica and John.

"Looks like we should have nice weather for flying," the man said casually to the guard who had not for one second taken his eyes off of them.

The guard made the mistake of looking out the car window where the man had motioned. A second later, a tidy, small bullet hole pierced his temple and he slumped against the window.

"That wasn't too traumatic for you, I hope," said the man, now speaking in English as he holstered his gun.

Gibson shook his head, though he was very shaken by the unexpected action.

"Good. We certainly cannot have such a hanger-on following us. What do you say about getting you home?" he asked with a smile, and Gibson nodded.


	81. Chapter 81

A/N - Oh yay! My homework assignment actually worked and a few new people stopped and said hello! Maybe this week, a few more of you will play along.

This week's assignment: Over the course of this ridiculously long novel, what are some scenes that you just absolutely hate? It's ok to say. My feelings will not be hurt, and there are plenty of scenes that already will never make it to the second draft.

Examples of two of my least favorite scenes: the escape from the hospital scene with Jimmy and Yves and the wedding night scene. Seriously, I hate those two so much I refuse to reread them.

Remember, I'm not fishing for reviews, just feedback, so you can just send me a private message. And for the record, it totally works. I got into a conversation with one reader and now I'm trying to figure out how to work in a new MOTW chapter somewhere earlier on. And this whole thing with Gibson losing his ability was also spurred by a reviewer. I love getting ideas from you guys!

* * *

"She's not going to agree to your deal," said Gibson, after they had landed in Mexico City.

"Ah, but there's so much I can give her. She'd be a fool to turn me down."

"You're a fool to think she'd leave John for you."

The man stiffened up and turned away from Gibson. "I'm not really interested in your opinions."

Monica had followed the mysterious man's instructions to not speak to anyone about the meeting. But both her father and her husband knew that she was hiding something. "I can't talk about it yet. When I can confirm what is going on, I will tell you," was all she could tell them.

The second phone call came almost exactly one week later. She'd stayed late every night, waiting for that call. Again, she demanded to know the caller's identity, and again, he did not give it to her. This time, the only information he passed along was an address and a time, with a warning to not share the information with her family. "Come alone. Remember, no bodyguard this time."

"Who are you? How do you know I brought a bodyguard? Are you one of Spender's men?" she asked only to hear a click as the line went dead. She would know soon enough who he was.

Still, she wasn't able to put her trust entirely in this unknown person. She spoke briefly to Rogelio, telling him only that someone had something that belonged to her, to the cause in general, and that this man had offered to return it under unspecified terms. And while she would not give him any further information and certainly no permission to accompany her, she did provide him with the address and meeting time. "If I don't send you a text within half an hour of the rendezvous time, feel free to get a closer look, and if it looks like trouble and the opportunity presents itself, do what you need to."

Monica drove to the appointed place, an abandoned military marching ground on the outskirts of the city. A black Mercedes with tinted windows stood parked in the designated spot and she pulled up alongside it, putting her car into park without turning it off. As she unbuckled her seatbelt, she made sure to feel for her weapon, confirming it was still there and secure – Rogelio had insisted she go in armed – and then she stepped out of the car.

A door opened and Gibson stepped out, a grin lighting up his face and he ran into her open arms. She held him tight, her own eyes closed to keep from crying with joy at his return.

Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw upon opening her eyes. There, leaning casually against the car, arms crossed, a smug look on his face, stood Brad Follmer.

Confusion danced over her face for several seconds. "Brad?" she finally managed to say. "I don't understand. How did … I mean, no one knew… We didn't tell anyone about Gibson… I thought… They said you were going to prison… I…" She began to laugh, at her inability to get a full thought out, at the ridiculousness of the situation, and at the relief as her tense situation turned into something far more familiar and manageable. "Oh my god, Brad. I never thought I'd see you again!" She let go her hold on Gibson and closed the distance to wrap her arms around her ex-lover.

She was too happy when she pulled away to be bothered by the stern look on his face, and she returned to Gibson, who stood waiting beside her car. She held the young man's face in her hands, grateful that he looked no worse for wear. "Where have you been all this time? Were you hurt?"

He shook his head. "I'm ok. I got caught in Seybaplaya in the Yucatan by someone who could read minds, and he sold me to some rich business man in Monterrey. He made me read his employees minds and a lot of them got killed because of me. I lied when I could, but I got caught lying so many times." There was so much sadness in his eyes that she embraced him again. "I just want to go home."

"You're safe now," she said tenderly as she looked with gratitude towards Brad.

"How did you know that Gibson was really alive and how did you find him? How did you even get involved in all of this?" she asked, not the least bit concerned by the tone he'd set in his earlier phone calls and completely forgetting that he had terms she was to meet before he would hand off Gibson.

"I run in different circles now, Monica. Circles that could be very useful for you and your ragtag team of conspirators."

"What do you know of that?"

"I know so much and I'm willing to help you, for a price."

She felt immediately disheartened. "How much? We don't have much to offer."

"I only want one thing," he said, again taking his original position leaning against his car.

Monica straightened up and dropped all traces of her smile. "Dare I ask what that is?"

"You."

"Me? What in the world do you mean by that?"

"I mean, I want to be with you again."

"You cannot be serious. Surely you know that I'm married now, that John and I have a daughter."

"Of course I know that. But Monica, losing you, because of my involvement with Rigali and his ilk, that was the biggest mistake I've ever made. And I've spent the better part of the last six years making reparations and working towards one goal – finding a way to prove to you that I've changed."

"Brad, this is ridiculous. I'm not going to leave John. No secret you've got is worth that."

"Not even the kind of secrets that can help you stop colonization?" He smirked as his question silenced her. "I thought so. Think about it, Monica. I have information that can save their lives – John's, Vera's, Gibson's – and the lives of every single person on the planet, in fact."

"I can't. That you're trying to blackmail me only makes me think that you've changed for the worse. I don't know what you've been up to the last six years, but I doubt it's been a journey of self-improvement."

"That's where you're wrong. I spent a year waiting for my trial and was found guilty. I spent two years in Federal prison. Knowing by then that you had fled to Mexico, I took it upon myself to learn Spanish, in hopes of coming out here, tracking you down, and aiding you in finding safety. Mulder beat me to it with the bargain he struck, but over the years, I've met so many people.

"Monica," he said, walking over to her and getting into her personal space, "I've got connections now not only with some of the highest figures in the FBI, CIA, DOD, and NSA, but I've also spent the better part of the last two years working my way into the Mexican Government. I've made high-level contacts with people in SEDENA, AFI, and even SAGAR, the agency your father once worked for," he said, referring to Mexico's Defense and Military Ministry, Federal Investigations Agency, and Agriculture & Rural Development Ministry. "And that's just the tip of the iceberg."

He placed his hand on her jacketed arm, but she quickly pulled away and shot him a warming look he knew all too well. He smiled smarmily and with a quick shrug stepped back a few paces.

"You're the one who's been making it impossible for John to find a job in the government. You're the one who's been warning people to stay away from him. You've been trying to sabotage my family for months."

"Monica, you've got to see it from my vantage point. I could not let John Doggett get that close for risk of him finding out about me. I could not risk being outed."

"That is the most self-centered and ridiculous reason I've ever heard. You would rather cause my family to suffer just to keep your secrets to yourself so that one day you could blackmail me into leaving my husband and child?"

"It's your choice, Monica. If you want to know what I know, then you'll have to come with me. If you want my invaluable help in this fight, you're going to have to join forces with me. And if you want Gibson Praise back, you're going to have to agree to this."

She placed her arm around the young man's shoulders and pulled him closer to her. Her mind was racing with questions for Gibson, questions about Brad's mental stability and how easily they could walk out of there and away from his absurd proposal, but the young man wasn't responding. "Gibson?" she asked, thinking that just possibly he was so focused on what Brad was thinking that he wasn't paying attention to her own thoughts. He looked at her, his eyes still filled with utter sadness, and shook his head.

"If you're trying to get Mr. Praise to tell you what's going on in my mind, then I'm afraid you've got several months of waiting in front of you before he can help. A simple shot of diluted magnetite and the young man is helpless." He gave a short laugh at her reaction. "Ah, magnetite peaks your interest. There is so much more that I can tell you about."

"I don't care about all that. I just want to take Gibson home. If you want to help us of your own free will, then we will welcome you into our 'ragtag team of conspirators.' But I'm not going to strike any other deal with you."

"Monica, I realize that this is a lot to take in at once. It's not a decision to be made lightly. So, here's what I propose: I will take Mr. Praise back with me to a secure location for a few days. We can meet again at another location afterward and you can let me know your final decision. And if you choose to return to your current path, stumbling around blindly without the connections and knowledge that I have, then I can return him to the man from whom I am paying a pretty penny to borrow his services."

"You are essentially telling me to choose between my husband and child and you and Gibson?"

"Monica," said the young man, finally speaking up, "I told you before that you should always choose Vera over me. I want to go home, but I'll be ok if you just want to walk away now."

"I will do nothing of the sort. I came here to retrieve you, and that's what I'm going to do. Get in the car; I'm taking you home. Brad, your deal is unacceptable. We're leaving and you can spend all the time you want thinking about whether or not you want to cooperate with us, or whether you want to stand alone in this. I will work with you in this battle, but I will never be with you as I was before." She turned her back on him.

"I wouldn't turn away from me right now, Monica," said Brad, his voice cold.

She faced him again, her eyes still flashing with anger, and then marched straight up to him. "I appreciate what you've done in finding Gibson. I really do, Brad. But that is all. What you've done over the past few years could have been so noble and so worthy of my admiration. But you have twisted it and tainted it, that chance you had at redemption." She turned on her heel and walked back to her car, opening the door and facing him one more time. "For the record, I love John and will never leave him or our daughter for anyone, and certainly not for you."

Brad smirked again. "I never did see what you saw in that pathetic sad sack of a man."

"You're making me forget what I ever saw in you, Brad. If you want compensation for rescuing Gibson, then you can contact me at a later date. But don't you ever, _ever_ try to blackmail me again. I'm not more interested in your games than your moral repugnance." She slammed the door, smiled at Gibson, and drove off.


	82. Chapter 82

A/N - Grad school is kicking my ass, in a good way. Sorry for the week's delay. But hey, there's some sexy DRR for you all! No homework/feedback requests. I need to put more energy into my schoolwork!

* * *

"Before we start catching up," she said to the young man, "I need to make a phone call." Though he could not read her mind, he could read her familiar smile that told him no matter what had happened to him since his departure, she would not judge him or lecture him his decisions.

She turned on her Bluetooth headset and a dashboard GPS and started talking locations with someone in Spanish, so it was obviously not John. They made many turns, twisting through tiny streets, until about fifteen minutes later, she looked into the rearview mirror and smiled. "Follow me home, Rogelio," she finally said.

They pulled up to the familiar iron gate, and she punched in the code that would let them in. Gibson never felt so tiny as the moment he was brought forward to meet Rogelio, who not only towered above him in height but also in breadth.

"So this is the 'thing' you were supposed to retrieve today? Looks a lot like a person. I think there must be a story here. Part of the colonization plot?" asked Rogelio.

"Maybe one of the most important parts," she said, holding her surrogate son's face in her hand again. "No one knows you're back. I wasn't sure who I was dealing with and I didn't have a reason to believe him or that this would work out. But you're here. You're really here and you're ok. You'll be ok, right?" she asked, and he could see the fear in her eyes. She knew that his life would forever be in danger, regardless of his powers, and that telepathy was his greatest defense against his enemies.

The young man, who since she'd come to know him some seven years earlier had never once cried except when ill, was now tearing up in front of him. She pulled him into a hug and he reciprocated as the tears overflowed. He was so grateful for whatever cosmic forces had put her into his life.

They were still mid-hug when the door opened and John stepped out. "Well," he said, a big grin breaking out on his face, "I'll be damned."

Gibson walked into Esteban Reyes' home after a seven-month absence, feeling disoriented after so long away and without his ability to know what everyone was actually thinking. All he could do was take the welcoming words at face value, shaking John's hand and accepting an awkward hug, and smiling at Monica's father. He nearly lost it again when Vera came running up to him. When had she gotten so old, he wondered as he held her in his arms. Everyone was speaking, words were flying at him too fast for him to keep track, and he just wanted to capture this moment and steal it away in his pocket. It was too incredible to be home.

But finally, all was revealed. He learned that John had taken a bullet for him, and Vera had dreams that he couldn't hear, and Inez had been secreted away to somewhere in South America. John learned about Brad's involvement, and the look on his face as he sat silently taking it in made Gibson really wish he could read his mind. It meant too that Monica had to tell her father about Brad, a man she'd never mentioned to her parents despite the three-year relationship she'd had with him, due to its illicit nature. Rogelio learned even more about colonization than he thought possible, though he would need a demonstration of Gibson's abilities to finally believe that the young man could read minds. And then Gibson told everything he could about his time locked away, leaving out the prostitutes, though he was sure John knew if he'd tracked down Selena. Vera had long since been put to bed when he began to tell of that and his work for Diaz.

It was well after midnight when everyone went their separate ways. Rogelio agreed to help guard Gibson as long as they needed him to and Gibson and John made plans to start renovating the studio apartment above the garage so that he could move out there when his abilities returned. They bid Rogelio goodnight and walked upstairs to Vera's room, where Gibson would sleep for the night, on the extra bed. He hugged them both, real hugs, and was soon sleeping peacefully.

Monica closed her bedroom door and looked at her husband with a smile that was both proud and amazed.

"You did good today, Mon," he said as he started to undress.

"But you think I should have included you," she asked, kicking off her shoes, but still smiling.

"Course I think that. It was a big risk. We already know that at least one person involved is too dangerous to meet alone," he said, referring to the man who had put a bullet in his gut.

She moved toward him, helping him out of his undershirt, touching the soft pink scar that was evidence of his error in judgment. "I know," she said softly, resting her head on his shoulder. "I was scared. That's why I brought Rogelio in on it. But at the same time, part of me felt like I could take on whoever it was on the other end of the phone. I just never imagined it would be Brad."

She felt him tense up before he moved away, under the pretext of needing to finish undressing for bed, and so she did the same. The emotional extremes of the day were undoing her, in a way that made her need her husband's attention more than ever, but she was far too aware that he was feeling threatened by something, so she gave him time, as she always did, and pulled on a slinky satiny gown – a wedding gift from Julia – to sleep in.

Still, he held her in the darkness, though he was not accepting her advances. "Are you upset?" she asked into the darkness.

"Nah, just thinking."

"About what?"

"Just… stuff."

Her fingers traced well known paths over his face. "Is it… about Brad?" she asked cautiously, for his reaction to the news that evening had not gone unnoticed by her. "You know that I would never even consider his proposition, right?"

"I know, Mon. It's not that. It's just… you're gonna read too much into this, I think, but I don't know who else I would tell. Just promise me you won't make a big deal of it, will you?"

"Ok," she promised, her voice rising with uncertainly and curiosity.

"Ever since I got shot, maybe every few nights or so, I have this crazy-ass dream. I'm back in that moment, when Mendoza shot me. 'Cept it ain't like that exactly. Suddenly Mendoza goes down, and I look back, and there's Brad Follmer looking like he did when he shot Regali. I just kept thinking it had something to do with me being shot and for some reason, out of all the times I've been around a fired weapon, my brain decided that was the one to tie up with what happened to me. And now, to find out that he was involved somehow, that scares me a lot, you know?"

She answered him with a kiss that didn't end until he had pulled her on top of himself. He stopped worrying, at least in that moment, and was grateful that she would rather concentrate all of that scattered energy and emotion into sex, rather than dissecting his dreams or using them as proof that he was like her. Something about finally admitting that to her strangely made him want to be closer to her. The material of her gown was cool against his chest; he loved the feel of it against his hands as he ran them up and down her sides, finally cupping her ass and pulling her harder against him. She slipped the gown over her head and rolled onto her back, her hand stroking him through the shorts he could not wait to get rid of.

Free of all clothing, he took time to admire her, as he almost always did, for it was difficult not to. She was forty now, her body long and lean, a little leaner than he liked, but she swore that this was just the way she was. Still, he knew she didn't eat enough, with the anti-syndicate, her job, Vera, and until today, Gibson's disappearance all diverting her attention away from making sure she was eating well. He tried his best to tempt her with food, but without fail her mind would be distracted from her meal before it was finished. Tonight, he traced her collarbones, the soft dips of her skin stretched across her ribs, the hollow of her hip bones, and made a mental note to fix her heuvos rancheros in the morning and not let her leave until her plate was clean, regardless of how pissed she'd be for behavior she would label as controlling. He kissed the still visible stretch marks of her stomach, the proof that she had carried their child, and he felt the pang in his heart that there would be no more, no matter how much he begged her. Her breasts had returned to their pre-Vera size, the skin and tissue more supple he noticed as he held them in his hands. "You are so beautiful," he said, a little breathless, reminding her of the first time he'd said that to her.

He pushed into her then, slowly, into the slick warmth that was so familiar. It was only the third time they'd made love since he'd been shot, and he still had to take it easy, but as long as they had time enough, they both preferred it that way. He ran his hands along her thighs. They were smooth – she'd obviously shaved that morning despite knowing that Gibson's life was hanging in the balance. He suspected she'd just wanted extra time in the shower to calm her nerves, for she did that sometimes.

When the little stitch in his abdomen began to ache, he pulled out and let her take the lead. She'd drawn the curtains that night, but there was still just enough light from the window to show her face, her eyes closed tight, her every sensation playing out on her features. He brushed her short hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ears, over and over again, delighting in the feel of it between his fingers. Her body pressed against his, her fingers now entangled in his slightly long and sloppy hair, her teeth nipping his earlobe for a second, her breath hot and fast in his ear, a sound so unbelievably erotic that he suddenly felt the unmistakable final buildup of pressure. He grabbed her ass, and pushed frantically into her, seven, eight, nine times, until in a great rush, he started to come, dropped his hold on her, and let her do what she needed to do, until she too felt all of her tensions melt away in a great swell of ecstasy.

For a long while they lay in quiet, until their skin shear with sweat broke into goose bumps. Monica pulled the sheets over her, and crossed her leg over his as he pulled her into his arms, kissing her forehead. "I love you," she said. They were words they spoke every day, out of habit, but which did not often make it into the bedroom any longer, and he remembered again what he'd told her just before they'd started making love.

John thought for a moment of telling her what he'd seen that day in the field back in '93. He had been mulling that over, as well as his somewhat prophetic dream, when she'd asked him what he was thinking about. But he'd kept it to himself for over fifteen years, and he knew if he'd admitted it, that would be the end. Monica would never let up on him. And so he kept it back, that secret that she of all people deserved to know. He loved and trusted her more than anyone, but even that was more than he could share. "I love you too, Mon," he said simply.


	83. Chapter 83

At four in the morning, Gibson was awoken by a rustle of sound and lights shining on the other side of his closed lids. Opening his eyes, he was greeted to the sight of Vera's face just inches from his own. "You're awake!" she squealed. "I drew you pictures!" Her hands were full of colorful drawings that she lifted and placed so close he could not see them clearly.

He groaned and closed his eyes.

"Are you sick?" she asked, examining him even closer. "Should I wake up Mama?"

"What time is it?" he asked groggily.

"It is four-zero-three," she replied.

"You shouldn't be waking up anyone at this hour, especially me." His voice was harsh, due to his fatigue, and it made her little lip tremble.

"Are you mad at me?" she asked as a big tear traced a path from the corner of her eye to her chin.

He sighed and rose, sitting on the side of the bed and pulling her onto his lap into a hug. "Nah, I'm just really sleepy. I've missed you too much to be mad at you. But maybe you could let me sleep until 8, ok? You can play if you want, but just be quiet."

She nuzzled against him. "I can sleep too," she decided.

"Good." He plopped her back down and curled back under his covers, but Vera still stood her guard by his bed. "Well?"

"Can I sleep with you?"

"You have your own bed."

"But I don't want anyone to take you away again."

"No one's going to take me away. And you're here in this room, so you can be a lookout, ok? I just want to go back to sleep." He closed his heavy eyes, and felt her pull up his blankets, patting them down as her parents probably did for her now. But she didn't leave.

He looked at her again, her elbows resting on the edge of his bed, her head in her hands, and her eyes staring intensely at him. He sighed and raised the covers, feeling much better about the decision as her little face lighted up with glee. She curled up with him and he though as he feel back asleep about how ridiculously happy he was to be with his family again.

Morning came without a cheery Vera peeking into their bedroom by eight, so Monica rose to check on her daughter, finding her asleep in the same bed as Gibson. She took a seat on Vera's bed and just watched them, her surrogate son, her flesh-and-blood daughter. How much the four of them had been through over the years, and now, finally, at least for the moment, they were reunited, healthy, and relatively safe from harm. What Gibson had been through his entire life amazed her, especially that he would choose to stay with them, and to return to them.

Vera opened her eyes and smiled. "Mama, I told Mikey all about Gibson."

Monica plucked her daughter up into her arms and kissed her. "You can tell me all about your Mikey dream downstairs; we need to let Gibson sleep."

"Nah, I'm awake," said the young man, wearily opening his eyes and reaching for his glasses. "Who's Mikey?"

Monica explained briefly, and then he sat and listened as Vera explained her dream in detail while her mother recorded it. He was further amazed at just how much she'd grown, listening to her talk so easily and so well. She was eager to show him her dream journal and share her favorite dreams from the past seven months. John swung by on his way downstairs, grinning, and declared that he hoped everyone was hungry, 'cause he was about to make the best heuvos rancheros a Georgia boy had ever made before. Vera trotted after her father, leaving Monica and Gibson to break into laughter.

There was a lot more laughter that day, and a lot of relief that Gibson's ordeal was over. There were plenty of fears too, of what would happen if Mr. Diaz found out, of what would happen if Mendoza tracked them down, and of what Brad was truly capable of. But those were worries for another time. The day passed tranquilly and they made up for all the lost time, also taking in the novelty of a Gibson who could not read their minds at the moment.

Life still had to continue on as normal for Monica, and though she wished she had the following day off, she did not. Monica had lost a lot of her "Americanisms," as she thought of them, during the nearly seven years they'd lived in Mexico. But coming back into the workforce, with a daily routine, she'd found herself indulging in one particularly American habit – a daily stop at Starbucks, which was made even more American by the fact that it was primarily inhabited by expats. She hadn't even been that much of a coffee drinker, but there was a shop just a few minutes' walk from her office, one that served coffee in real mugs, sold the New York Times, and generally had a table open. It became her ritual and a welcome break between home and work.

She had walked Vera to school alone that morning, so that John could stay with Gibson, but she was still floating on a high of having him back, and still not too concerned with who had brought him back and what exactly Brad might have in mind given that she had left him so abruptly. So it did shock her to walk into her Starbucks, turn to look for an empty table, and find him already sitting at one, smirking as he was wont to do. He motioned to a white mug placed opposite him. Beside it lay a copy of the New York Times.

"Cafe mocha blanco," he said, his accent rather thick, when she finally made her way to the table.

"You know my drink order?"

"Of course," he replied, looking surprised at her surprise. "Why do you think I wouldn't?"

"Because it implies that you've been… stalking me, for lack of a better word. As does the newspaper and the fact that you know when I come here." She took her seat, but kept her distance. "This isn't impressive, Brad. It's disturbing."

"I'm only looking out for you. That's all I've been doing since you resurfaced. You should drink up, Monica, before it gets cold." He took a sip of his coffee. "It's not poisoned. Drink."

She instead opened up her phone and started to text Rogelio.

"What are you doing?" he asked, annoyance just barely being held at bay in his voice.

"I'm showing you how little I trust you. I just sent a text to someone, in case you are planning anything that would keep me from making it into work today."

"That really hurts. I'm not here to kidnap you. I want you to trust me, but I can see that will take some time."

"It's going to take a hell of a lot of time."

"Can we just go back and start again?"

"Back to where, Brad? Back to when you tried to force me to leave John? Back to when you were making mysterious phone calls to my office? Back to when you were trying to keep John from getting a job?"

"We had some good times, remember? Three years, you can't just completely disregard that."

"I don't disregard it, but it's not something I look back on with any nostalgia. And it's not anything I would like to repeat."

"I'm not asking you to repeat anything." She gave him a look that reminded him that he had indeed asked her that. "Not right now, not at this table. At this table, we are just two old friends, meeting for coffee, getting reacquainted. Now just relax, drink your coffee, and let's have a civil conversation."

She nodded stiffly and took a sip of her still-warm drink.

"Good. Let's start over. How are you doing today? How is Gibson settling back into his routine?"

"I am well. My family is well, and we are all very happy to be back together."

"I'm pleased to hear that. Happy belated birthday, by the way. You look good, Monica. Really good. If only all women could reach forty looking as beautiful and downright gorgeous as yourself."

Monica recognized the lust in his eyes and looked away, obviously discontented.

"Ok, I get it, compliments don't work. How about an apology?"

"That would be very much welcomed."

"I've done a lot of things wrong, Monica, and I admit it. I don't just mean the Regali business. I have bigger regrets. Namely, that I wasn't man enough to take care of you when you needed me. I should have married you back then. We could have had a family, if I hadn't been so concerned with keeping everything a secret."

"Don't go there, Brad. Please don't go there."

"It's true, though. In prison, we talked a lot about life choices and regrets, and that's my biggest one. I shouldn't have forced you to make that decision. I should have stepped up and taken responsibility."

"You didn't force me to do anything. I'd already made a decision, and it didn't matter whether or not you agreed. Mistakes were made, but you have to learn from them and move on. I don't regret any of it, and you shouldn't either. You were what I wanted and what I needed back then." She stopped talking and looked at him hard, her eyes boring into his. "If you bring up the past again, I will walk away from this table immediately. So if you want to discuss some sort of recompense for rescuing Gibson, then stay in the present and only suggest that which can be given."

"Monica, don't you realize who sent you to the farm? I didn't realize that that man, Spender, would be there, but all the better, for now you know. And you must know how much information I've got, the kind of connections I've got."

"Then tell me what you know. Help us in this fight. Prove that you really did change."

He slapped his hand down on the table, startling everyone, including himself, before speaking in a hushed whisper. "No! I did not work this hard and for this long to just hand over everything I know to you and John Doggett. I have done what I've done these last five years to prove to you that I am the man you need by your side. I can help you win this war, not John."

"John is the only man I need by my side. I love him in a way I never did and never could love you."

"When the invasion happens, are you really going to choose him over the entirety of the human race?"

She stood up. "I chose the man who would put the human race above me." Leaving her unfinished drink and newspaper behind, she walked away without looking back.

As soon as she was out of sight, she slipped into a pastry shop, ordered a milhojas and another coffee. She wasn't the type to let such a run-in bother her, but she noticed as she held her coffee that her hands were shaking. Brad had brought up too much about the past and she hadn't been prepared for all that rehashing, and the allusions to one of the darker moments of their relationship.

Three years of her life had been wrapped up in him. He'd wandered into the New York office after a transfer from Chicago, where he'd been the ASAC. The move had come with a promotion to SAC – Special Agent in Charge – and he'd worn his mantel with pride. It didn't take him long to set his sights on her, and he'd told her the first night that they were together, which was immediately following their first date, that she was the prettiest agent in the office, and the only one he considered worth his time.

She'd been flattered enough to not think about the fact that they had to hide their relationship, staying in dingy hotels, stealing a few minutes in his office, hiding out from anyone who might take notice. She knew it was a dangerous game to be playing with her career, and she also realized that it was why she desired it, and him, so much. Neither one of them was willing to sacrifice their job and neither was willing to stop. She liked him too, on a personal level. He was suave and quick-witted, dashing at times. He made her laugh, he made her feel desired, and he was the most passionate lover she would ever have (though it was only after being with John that she recognized his passion was all about pleasing himself, and any pleasure that she took was obviously due to his prowess.) Still, it had been enough to make her happy and to distract her from John who was at that point still legally, and emotionally, married.

That dark time that he'd referred to that morning in Starbucks had occurred just months into their relationship. Despite all of the care they'd put into remaining discrete, neither had been diligent with certain other precautions they should have – their rendezvous were so often unplanned and he hated using condoms. He would usually pull out before he came, but just like the horror stories she'd been taught in Catholic school, sometimes that wasn't enough. She began to feel unwell in the mornings, though it was not nearly as violently ill as she would one day be with Vera. Finally, not wanting anything to show up on her FBI file, she'd gone to a Planned Parenthood clinic instead, one far away from her own neighborhood, where they confirmed that she was indeed pregnant.

She returned to work from the clinic feeling utterly stunned. One look at her ashen face and he canceled his next appointment and let her in. "I'm pregnant," she said simply, too much in shock to elaborate.

He leaned back in his chair and stared at his bookshelf, his chest rising and falling heavily with each breath. "You're sure?"

"Just had it confirmed."

He thought for a few seconds before leaning back in and lowering his voice. "You know this kind of thing is career suicide, for both of us. You know that you can't keep it, right?"

She nodded. "I… I don't want it," she said, meaning it for the very reason he'd just cited, though annoyed that he was so cavalier about it.

"Good. Then we're in agreement. Make sure to be discrete about it. Don't go through your regular doctor, don't use your insurance, don't even use your real name."

"I know, Brad" she said, annoyed. "I've already made an appointment at Planned Parenthood. It won't show up anywhere in my files."

He gave her all the money he had in his wallet, about $150, and a week's leave, telling her he wished he could go with her, but that was too much of a risk.

She hated being in that position, being 26 and unmarried, circumstances preventing her from being in an open relationship with him. But when she asked herself if she would still want to have his child were their situation different, she found she reached the same conclusion. She enjoyed being with Brad, and even felt at times that she would eventually love him. And it wasn't just Brad that she had to think about, it was herself. She wasn't sure she wanted to sacrifice her career to this child. Maybe this child was the deserved outcome for a sexual affair that she should have avoided from the beginning, or maybe it wasn't a cosmically created reminder after all, but a mistake, a very serious mistake.

Monica believed that ultimately there was a pattern to everything, and that everything happened for a reason. She just wasn't so quick to cling to the reasons that most people would have cited in such a situation. For one, since the universe wasn't so willing to explain itself, there really was no way to know for sure why things happened the way they did. So she took the approach that whatever happened and whatever decisions were made regarding it, happened for a reason. Maybe she got pregnant to have that child, or maybe she got pregnant to have that abortion. Maybe it was just an opportunity to evaluate her life. How could she know what the universe wanted her to learn from this experience?

And when it was all said and done, she felt remarkably… alright. She could never say without lying that it had been an easy decision, but she could say without a doubt in her mind that it was the right decision. Especially fifteen years removed from the event, she had to acknowledge that making that decision kept her on the path to John, Gibson, and Vera.

Back then she had no one to turn to. No one else knew of their relationship – he'd made her swear to not breathe a word of it to any of her friends, for fear that someone would feel it was their duty to report it, and he certainly couldn't jeopardize his career, not when he was on the fast track to Division Chief. She certainly couldn't have talked to John about it, for his wife had just asked again for a divorce, and besides, she knew he would disapprove of her current relationship and the situation she'd gotten herself into, as well as the decision she'd made. She made the trek to the clinic alone.

She hadn't regretted going to back to Brad either. In fact, it almost felt beyond her control. She'd been hurt that he hadn't come to visit, not that he'd ever been to her apartment, and he hadn't called or shown any indication that he was concerned. But when she'd returned to work, he called her into his office and gently asked how she felt, though the reason for her absence would never be mentioned between them again, not until that morning at the coffee shop. He promised her, when she felt up to it, that he would take her out somewhere nice and that he would be willing to treat her to an expensive hotel for the night, which he did, complete with a dozen roses and all the fine words she'd wanted to hear from him before. After so much neglect, she found herself clinging to him, grateful both that she had made the right decision for them, and that he still desired her as much as she desired him.

They'd reached a new level of understanding after that. She noticed her was kinder and tenderer to her, though strangely more distant. She took it as a way of protecting himself emotionally, and she responded in kind. It worked better for her, for it was soon after that John would call her one night in tears, distraught that Barbara had finally filed for divorce. It was easier for her to sit with him that night, knowing that she was not the other woman, for she had Brad, and maybe it was easier for her to keep some distance from Brad, for she would one day have John.

This morning, however, she didn't know what she was going to do about him, especially given the fact that he knew far too much about her life and routine. She worried too about his remembrance of that event that even she had long since put behind her. Would he use it against her?

There was just too much to think about and no clear answers, so she finished her coffee, and wrapped up her pastry to bring to Rogelio, and she sent a quick prayer to whatever was out there for Brad to come to his senses and leave her alone.


	84. Chapter 84

A/N - First off, major apologies for the extended vacation. I swear, I was only going to take the last week of school off, and maybe the first week of break, but then I added a week to the beginning and took the second week of break as well, and then the first week of school was tough too, and now here I am, posting a craptastic chapter after over a month off. I suck! Anyway, I promise, only one more week of Brad, then they are blowing off this storyline and going on to better and more exciting things.

* * *

As soon as she got the office, she called John, warning him to stay on his guard, that Brad had contacted her again. When she returned home, six hours later, she found him fuming.

"He still harassing you? Because I will hunt him down and make him wish that he'd never laid eyes on you."

She threw him a look that said she wasn't impressed with his bravado. "John, he helped bring Gibson home. We are in his debt."

"And what exactly does that mean? You don't owe him anything, Monica."

Her head tilted to the left and she rolled her eyes at him, her smile disappearing into a more serious countenance. "There is no reason for you to be jealous. And if you're implying that I would even consider his offer, I'm rather offended."

"Of course I'm not," he said, his body language not supporting that statement.

"We owe him, alright? He put his neck on the line to rescue Gibson, and he paid more money than I can even imagine just to hire him for a few months. Yes, it's an absurd sum, but that doesn't mean he gets his absurd request granted."

"So he was just repeating more of what he'd said before," John replied, looking cockier than usual. He was also raising his volume uncomfortably high for the hushed conversation they were having within sight of their family, so she pulled him from the kitchen into the foyer.

"Well, yes, honestly, he was. But I'm really not seeing why you're so upset, not if you truly believe I would never accept his offer."

"Course I believe you, Mon. I just don't trust him. Hell, ever since you first told me about him, I thought he was no better than dirt, just scum."

She thought back to that night, when she'd finally admitted to John who she was seeing. It had been towards the end of her relationship with Brad, maybe the last year they were together. John had failed to respond to all the times she'd asked him out, and one night, after one too many beers, she let it all come out. She'd known that her reasons were multi-faceted, that she wanted John to feel jealous, that she wanted to shock him, and that she'd also wanted someone to confess her secret to, someone who would forgive her and console her. The alcohol had made it difficult to understand what he really felt, but he'd taken it in stride, which was not her goal at all. In fact, if it had done anything, it had caused him to pull away from her. She didn't know then if it was because he saw her as attached to someone or if he was angered by her behavior. It wasn't until she'd left Brad that John began to warm up to her again. And now, suddenly, he was jealous, even though he denied it.

After an prolonged period of silence, he narrowed his eyes. "What?" he asked with frustration. "What aren't you saying?"

A smile of incredulity crept onto her lips. "Do you realize how much I wished you'd get jealous back when I was with Brad?"

But instead of smiling in return, he turned away, taking the stairs two at a time and closing the bedroom door a little louder than normal. She sighed and walked into the living room, finding three sets of curious eyes on her. She waved it off, to the two who understood, and settled down on the floor with Vera and Gibson, who were playing a board game.

As dinner was being finished, John finally returned, wearing a façade of normality, though she knew perfectly well that he was still being eaten up by Brad's return, even though she couldn't comprehend why. The evening progressed as normal, conversations were had, Vera was bathed and put to bed, and the four of them watched a program on TV. And at the same time as usual, John said he was ready for bed, headed upstairs to get ready, and Monica walked with her father to his room, spending a few minutes chatting before saying goodnight. She kissed Gibson on the forehead, reminding him to turn down the volume of the TV and not stay up too late, went through her nightly bathroom routine, then checked on her daughter, and finally, with a deep breath, opened the door to her bedroom.

Her husband sat on the edge of the bed, a John Grisham novel open before him. He stood up and for a moment she mistook the look in his eyes for anger. But instead, he grabbed hold of her neck, his lips on hers, his other hand sliding into her jeans and grabbing her ass. He pressed her against the door, his pelvis grinding against hers, and after a brief moment of delightful shock, she deftly unzipped his jeans, slipping her hand inside, feeling his quickly stiffening cock in her hand. Within seconds he was fully hard and he pulled her hand away, stripping her of her shirt and roughly pushing her bra up to expose her breasts, which were soon being licked and teased with his tongue and teeth. Her slacks were unbuttoned and left to slink down her legs, piling at her feet. In a matter of seconds, the rest of their clothes were shed, and he hooked his arm under her leg, pulling it up, rubbing his cock against her slick opening and pulsing clit before finally sliding in.

"You're going to hurt yourself," she started to say, but he cut her off midsentence with another fierce kiss, pumping into her with such dexterity as to suggest he fucked her like this on a regular basis. She didn't mind in least, but when they fell against the door so hard that she was sure the noise had echoed through the whole house, she managed to convince him to move to the bed. He continued to be rough, operating outside of his sexual norms, taking her from behind, rubbing her clit hard and fast, until she climaxed, her head buried in a pillow to keep from crying out. He hadn't stopped for her, and she knew he wasn't close, but she needed to pull away.

"I'm not finished," he said, his tone strangely incensed.

"Just… give me a second. I don't know what's gotten into you, but I like it. Trust me." She rolled over to look at him, his eyes wild. It scared her, not because she was afraid of him, but because she'd never seen him like this. She knew it was jealousy, though she could not understand why. There was little to do at the moment but pull him into her embrace and let him get it all out of his system.

As he continued to fuck her with wild abandon, she did her best to give him the attention he needed while her mind pondered the situation. She loved her husband, there was no dispute there, and she loved him in bed, even though she found him to be rather "vanilla." He knew very well that she wanted more, but it was outside his comfort zone, so he claimed. Everyone she'd ever slept with had some sort of kink, herself included, and she wasn't really sure what to make of his preference for the missionary position and his near inability to come without looking at her. She chalked it up to love, though, and didn't spend much time fighting him for more, as he always made sure she left the bed satisfied.

Lovemaking had also never been about dominance; neither one of them could easily be the called the top or the bottom. They switched back and forth constantly. Sure, there were moments sometimes when one would claim dominance over the other, but nothing compared to what he was doing now with her body, contorting her, moving her, pinning her down. She trusted John, of course, as there was a foundation of trust built from eight years together as a couple, and nine years previous as friends. But she'd never accepted this of any of her lovers before… except for Brad, and that realization gave her insight into what was happening in the bed now.

Those thoughts trailed off, though, as her body began to respond again. She took control from him now, a little tired of his bullshit and less than patient with his hang-up over Brad. He didn't give up control easily, though, and she fought against him, placing his hands on her hips, threatening to tie them to the bed frame if he didn't stop moving them, keeping him at the pace she set, hoping that he would realize that there was nothing else in that room but the two of them. It took a while, but he finally let go. She felt the tension in his body and the room slide away.

For several minutes, they lay in a tangle of sweaty arms and legs, contemplative. Monica wasn't sure if she wanted to speak to him about his problem with Brad. Obviously he felt threatened and he was over compensating by doing things to her he must have insinuated that Brad had once done to her. The conversation would be best saved for another day, she thought, and she turned off the light and pulled the covers over them, settling into him for the night.

He took hold of her shoulder, kissing it along her back and up her neck, and she grabbed hold of his hand, pulling it tight around her, letting him know that she wanted to be there, wrapped in his embrace.

Her eyes had just closed when he cleared his throat to speak. "Monica," he said softly, "I've been thinking a lot about something, something I know you don't want to talk about."

"Yes?" she asked, suddenly nervous what her husband could possibly have been pondering and for how long.

"It's about having another kid. I know you don't want more, but I was thinking 'bout what you said a few months back, 'bout how if there was an accident, I'd have to stay home with him or her."

She couldn't answer, her throat tight with uncertainty.

"'Cause I do still want more. At least one more. Do you think, maybe, for me, you would be willing?"

The question left her bewildered. "Is this about Brad?"

"God no. I said I've been thinking about it for a while."

"But you brought it up tonight. And you can't deny that you are not yourself tonight."

"So maybe there's some tension, but it ain't the reason."

"Then what is?" she asked.

"I just… feel like we're giving up. You know, we can fight this thing, but I worry that it'll be bigger than us, bigger than we can imagine. I worry that we… we won't all survive."

She chewed on the statement, trying to understand his fears. And then she understood. "Is this about Luke?" she asked, her voice gentle. "Are you worried that we'll lose Vera?"

The question was more pointed than he expected. Yes, the thought did lurk around the darker corners of his brain, goading him to imagine a world without her.

When he didn't answer, she knew she was right. He was a man who knew the horror of losing one's only child, and of course he would be afraid it would happen again. Losing Luke had cost him so much more. Without a child, he and Barbara were no longer a family, just a married couple. And without that child, they did not know how to function any longer together. Losing Luke meant losing Barbara.

"You worry that if something happens to Vera, you will lose me too. And right now, Brad's presence is making you fear that you will lose me. I think the fear of one type of loss is making you dread another. Neither one is valid, John. I'm only going to say this one more time, but even hell could freeze over and I wouldn't leave you for Brad. Vera will be fine too. And another thing I'm saying for the last time, I'm not having another child. I'm not discussing the subject, I'm not going to argue the subject, I'm not even going to consider the subject." She waited in the darkness for his response.

"I'm sorry," he finally said, his voice tired.

"It's nothing you need to apologize for. You have your own fears and insecurities, and I understand them very well. I don't hold them against you. You would not be you without them."

She bade him goodnight and he lay there, listening to her breathing finally slow into a sleeping rhythm. How in the world had she been able to analyze him to such a degree? How had she figured out things he hadn't understood until that moment? It scared him sometimes how well she knew him. He doubted Gibson, when he was able to read minds, could have deduced so much.

In the morning, as she stood in the kitchen, picking at the plate of huevos rancheros John had made, he told her that he was coming with her to Starbucks.

"I'd rather you not," she said, giving him a look.

"Sorry, that's just the way it's gonna be."

"And who's going to watch over Gibson?"

"He's coming with us."

Gibson looked up nervously.

"I don't think that's safe. He shouldn't be going out in public at all. At the very least, not until he can read minds again."

"We'll call Rogelio and have him sit in the car with him. I just want to talk to Mr. Follmer."

"Who's Mr. Follmer?" asked Vera.

Monica shot her husband another look, this one warning him to watch what he said. "No one important, love, just someone I know. Finish your breakfast. It's almost time for school."

When she returned from the school run, she was disappointed to find that John was still preparing to accompany her. Gibson looked pained. His adolescent dislike of being in the middle of their disagreements had never gone away, and though he didn't want to admit it, he was terrified of stepping outside into the silent world. It still spooked him to be cut off in such a way.

By this point, Monica had decided she was finished speaking to her husband. She walked to the garage, ignoring him as she followed behind and as he entered the car. She spoke only to Gibson, instructing him to hide on the floor in the backseat, beneath the dark blanket John had brought along.

At the office, Rogelio joined them, sitting calmly in the front seat, ready to drive away if need be, while she and John walked to the coffee shop. The look on her face had grown angrier, her eyes full of fire, her nostrils flaring, her jaw tight.

Sure enough, Brad was there, sitting at the same table, with the same drink and newspaper. But as soon as he saw John, his relaxed postures stiffened and all traces of a smile disappeared.

She was about to whisper to John to be nice, when he suddenly marched over to the table, slamming his hands down on it, getting right into Brad's face. "You need to leave my wife alone," he said, his voice fierce. The entire café became hushed.

Monica put a hand on John's shoulder, pulling at him. "John, don't make a scene."

"You stop harassing her," he said, with greater intensity.

"I think, Mr. Doggett, that you are the one harassing me. I only came to talk to Monica, to finalize some minor details of the business arrangement," he said, flashing his trademark smile to the onlookers.

"The hell you are!"

Already he'd worn out his welcome, and a barista began to make his way over to ask them to leave.

"John, enough. Let's step outside. You're drawing too much attention."

He looked up to see the nervous barista and the shocked faces of the patrons. "Fine, outside."

But no sooner were they outside, than he grabbed him by the lapels and pushed him into a wall.

"Stop it, John," Monica said, her face beside his, her hand on his chest, gently pushing him away. "Brad, are you ok?" she asked, more to piss off John than out of concern. He nodded and brushed himself off. "No more accosting me, no more following me. If you want to talk to me, I'm assuming you know where I live."

"You can't invite him into our home."

"It's my father's home, first and foremost, and I'd rather he come there than play the coward in the shadows. I have nothing to fear and I think you need to see with your own eyes that I've moved on. Also, it's a safe place to talk. Friday night, my father's home. The four of us, Gibson included, will discuss how to resolve this situation."

He agreed to the proposition and they parted ways. But as soon as they returned to the car and released Rogelio from his duties, she laid into John. "Showing yourself to be that threatened by him only makes him think that there's a reason for you to be threatened. You've got three days to get your act together." With that, she left him and walked into her office.


	85. Chapter 85

A/N: OMG. Guys. I'm so sorry for the ridiculous wait. Excuses: 1) Hardest quarter of grad school yet, but dropping everything – and I do mean everything – allowed me to make the highest marks possible in all my classes, so it was worth it! 2) Laziness – isn't that always a bugger? Even after school finished, I still felt so drained that thinking and especially creating were a bit beyond me, so I just vegged for a while. 3) Writer's block! More about that at the end!

* * *

She wasn't about to admit it to anyone, but she felt ridiculous for getting herself in this situation. She honestly didn't want Brad anywhere near her family and would have preferred he slink away like the cretin he was, but she had to recognize that he did in fact know where they lived and that he wasn't going to let them keep Gibson with nothing in return. And then there was the matter of determining just how much he knew about other things.

"It's a bad idea, Monica," said Gibson, giving her a disapproving look. "You should have at least waited for me to be able to read his mind again."

She knew he was right. But she was committed now.

John, on the other hand, was livid, but silent. Had there been another place to sleep, he would have slept there, and his attitude showed this easily. Monica didn't really have the patience to deal with him and was far more worried about how the dinner with Brad would go.

He arrived on time, his foreknowledge of her address troubling, but not surprising. John made sure he was beside his wife, however, when the door opened, greeting him with a curt, "Brad."

"John, Monica," said Brad, his smile unnatural. "I'm sorry I did not bring a gift, but my funds are a little tapped right now, as I'm sure we will discuss later."

Monica tilted her head at him, her exasperation already growing. "Come in. Dinner's almost ready." She led him into the living room, introducing him briefly to her father and daughter, before returning to the kitchen to help Gibson finish up dinner, all the while keeping an eye and an ear on the conversation.

Brad was obviously uncomfortable, and she felt this was a slight advantage for them, but she also knew that a cornered animal could turn into a vicious animal very quickly. She hoped John recognized this as well.

Vera sat in her father's lap, strangely unsettled by the stranger. It did not help that one of the first things Brad had uttered upon meeting her was, "Poor kid. She really does take after John, doesn't she?" She mentally commended John for not strangling him right then and there.

He continued to push her through dinner, asking shortly after its commencement, looking straight at her uncommonly silent child, why in the world they did not have a nanny. "Is your financial situation really that bad? When does she get sent to bed?" So much for hoping he would be polite and at least pretend that her daughter wasn't a nuisance.

Brad refused to speak about what he knew and what he wanted from the exchange.

She should have been paying more attention to John. Suddenly, after a strained and extended round of silence, he slammed his silverware onto the table, making everyone but Brad jump. He stood abruptly from the table, his chair nearly falling over, stared down the man who had thrown his life into inexplicable turmoil, and walked out to the backyard.

Monica was not entirely sure what had happened or what needed to be done. She was reluctant to leave Gibson alone with Brad; hell, she was reluctant to leave any member of her family alone with Brad. "Papa, would you please take Vera up to her room and close the door?" After they were a safe distance away, she removed the weapon she'd purposely worn to the dinner and placed it in front of Gibson. "If he so much as shifts in his seat, you have my permission to shoot him. I would recommend something painful rather than deadly, of course, unless you think your life is truly in danger." She squeezed the young man's shoulder while giving Brad a chilling look, and then departed to find her husband.

She found him in the chapel, strangely enough. He sat lost in thought, his head resting in his hands, and didn't notice her entrance.

"John?" she asked softly.

"I think you should leave me alone for a while."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize this would upset you so much," she said, taking a seat next to him. His arm felt tense beneath her hand and it worried her, but he soon pulled away, which only worried her more. "You've got to talk to me."

"I don't want that man in my house."

"It's just for a little while longer. Once V's asleep, maybe he'll talk."

"I can't go back in there, Mon. I can't be in the same room with him. I can't look at his face."

"Don't give him that power over you." She took hold of his arm again, and this time he let her. "He's probably thrilled that his visit upsets you so. It's just adding to the fun of the chase for him."

He shook his head and looked at her with a certain desperation and she could tell that he needed to say something to her but was struggling to get his words together. When he finally spoke, she couldn't believe that she had been unaware of the real issue.

"You know in the Bible, the part that says, 'Vengeance is mine; I will repay'?" he asked slowly. She nodded. "He took that from me. Brad Follmer took my chance to avenge my son's murder."

Her face softened with pity and she touched his face. "John, those were God's words Paul was quoting: he was telling the believers not to seek vengeance and to leave things in God's hands."

He rubbed his hands together, pondering her statement. "Don't really care. It was still my revenge, not his. Rigali took Luke from me. All Rigali did to that bastard in there was pay him a shitload of money to pull strings and keep him out of trouble."

"Would you really have killed Rigali that day?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper and her stomach twisted with fear at his response.

"Not sure. I wanted to hurt him. I know that much. I wonder a lot what I would have done. Maybe I would have just arrested him, slammed his skull into the pavement a few times for good measure. But I can't say."

Neither spoke for a while.

"Nothing can change what happened. Rigali's dead. Maybe you didn't get to enact revenge, maybe that was how the universe sought to bring Luke justice, to take it out of your hands, to keep you from the fate that awaited Brad afterward. Rigali died but you were able to be there when Mulder and then Gibson needed you most. And I… what would I have done without you?"

He kissed her, in his loving, protective way, pulling her into him for an embrace. When he released her, he continued. "I still can't go in there. When I see him, I want to kill him. You can say it's misplaced if you want, and you're probably right, but that's how I feel and I can't seem to change that. I mean, if he hadn't been bribed by Rigali all those years, that bastard might have been in jail as he deserved and maybe, maybe I could have gotten Luke back."

"I know you know this, but revenge solves nothing. It does not right the wrong. You hurt Brad, and it only makes you less of a man."

"Nice sentiment, but doesn't change anything. We can talk more about it later. Just go get whatever information you need from him and then show him the door. When he's gone, I'll come back inside."

She nodded and left.

Brad smile as she entered. "See," he said, smiling, "I didn't move and the boy didn't have to shoot me. John still having a tantrum?"

"John is fine. We're going to make this quick. I want to know two things – what do you know that can help us, and what do you want in exchange for Gibson? Please do not repeat any requests that you have previously made and I have rejected. You've got ten minutes." She paused, a certain expression on her face making it clear that she wasn't quite finished, and then finally added, "Keep in mind that any help you provide us, any work you are willing to do for us, keeps you in my life, whether I like it or not. Any threats or blackmail such as before will end require you to leave and never contact me again."

"Reverse blackmail?"

"Call it what you like. You've got nine minutes and 51 seconds."

"They're coming."

"The aliens? We already know that. And we know some are here now. Why are you wasting your time?"

"I wasn't privy to any of this information when you were on the X-files. In fact, I considered it to be a huge waste of bureau money, as UFOs and alien encounters had long been disproven. But then you disappeared for the sake of a boy who supposedly read minds, and I know you, no matter how much you wanted to believe, wouldn't have done something so rash unless you _knew_, unless you had proof. So I started there, believing that Gibson Praise was indeed a mind reader. By this point of course, I had no resources to look into it any further, but with much prodding I was able to get in touch with AD Skinner. It took some time, but eventually I was about to convince him of my willingness to help in the matter. He had no one. Scully refused to return to the Bureau, and Mulder refused to come out of hiding, and neither made any attempt to stay in contact with Skinner over the years, both thinking it safer to cut ties.

"Six minutes and 34 seconds. Is this going to be all exposition?"

"He didn't trust me at first, but he gave me names, and I spoke to people. What I wanted most, he said he could not give me. He said that not only had the X-files been closed, but they had been stolen, he suspected by the military or a secret branch of the government. I just started speaking to people – kids who'd been abducted, women who claimed their cancers had been created by aliens, officials who said they knew of tacit approval from the military of the invasion, airmen who'd seen crafts in the air and alien corpses in UFO wreckage. On and on. That's all I did my first year out. I just needed to know what you knew. And once I'd heard enough – from a woman at NCDC who spoke about something called Purity Control and vaccines to fight the alien virus – then I decided it was time to do something about it."

"Four minutes and three seconds."

"You were in Mexico, and I figured that had more to do with the X-files than your heritage; I mean, you told me once you'd left Mexico and never looked back. So I start looking and no sooner do I start then I find the corn connection, which led to the type of farming you saw, and the clones, and the bees. When I discovered the chilling reasons for NAFTA had nothing to do at all with free trade and everything to do with creating bee-friendly crops and establishing large enough bee colonies to help spread the alien virus as quickly and efficiently as possible to as large a population as possible. The U.S. is a major player in this, as is Russia. Two supposed enemies have been secretly working together – or at least factions from the two countries. The man that was killed in the parking garage when you first came to D.C., Krycek, he was something of a Russian spy, but something much, much more than that. He worked for a group of people who – "

"Two minutes."

"People who had long known of the invasion and outwardly tried to work with the aliens, yet amongst themselves were trying to create a vaccine so as to protect themselves and their loved one. They died for their deceit. No new group has moved in, but the military's role in the invasion is larger than ever. Mexico, however, is just being strung along for the ride. There is no one fighting for or against the country on the inside, though plenty know about it, as I'm assuming your father must from his years of working in the agricultural department – and because records indicate that he has a large plot of land out in the middle of nowhere in Mexico. Not a popular region for retirees.

"30 seconds."

"Look, Monica, the aliens are coming. In all the years I've been investigating this, I've found no one who thinks they can stop it. I wish I could give you answers, but that's the best I've got – even those who know the most and who have the most resources, even they think we are doomed. I – "

"Your time is up, Brad. You've done nothing but give me a history lesson. You've told me nothing useful. You've given me no names. What do you think I'm supposed to do with that?"

He leaned back in his chair, eyeing her in a particularly unpleasant manner, trying to disquiet her, though she was immune to his ways. "I can get you Marita Kovarubias."

Monica was immediately interested, but kept it from showing. "And what exactly can she do for us? She has no power. She has no connections. She's been in hiding even longer than us."

"I believe she knows what will stop them."

"Why do you believe that? If she did, why isn't she doing anything with that knowledge?"

"Because she's afraid. If she comes forward at the wrong time, they will kill her. No one would believe her either. I believe she is waiting until the invasion begins before daring to make contact with anyone."

"Fine. You get us Kovarubias, then we'll talk. Now, what do you want for Gibson's return?"

* * *

A/N II – So, writer's block. I'm already kicking myself for introducing Brad. I mean, I love that he showed up and saved Gibson, but I'll be damned if I know what to do with him, and I sure as hell have no idea what he wants (other than Monica, which he can't have.) Do you have any ideas? Would you rather he just spontaneously combust? Go evil? Go good? (Obviously the jury's still out on that – the characters aren't always so clear about their intentions, and he was already wishy-washy to begin with.) Let me know! I take all suggestions very seriously.


	86. Chapter 86

A/N: Very short chapter, but at least it gets Brad out of the way so I can move onto the next section, which I'm super excited about! Expect a much longer, much more interesting chapter next time!

He stared her down for a full minute before speaking. "I think, Monica, that I will take a rain check. I have a feeling that it would be wisest to save my repayment for a day when I truly need it." He stood up to take his leave.

"What are we going to do about Diaz, though?"

"I will take care of Diaz when the time is right."

Monica didn't ask; she didn't want to have him confirm what she already knew he meant. "Be careful out there, Brad."

She walked him to the door, pleased that he was compliant, her mind no longer pondering what his future request might entail.

"One more thing," she said as he walked out onto the porch. "Do you know anything about my birth parents?"

"Your birth parents? Isn't that a strange thing to be worrying over in the midst of what is going on? I thought you didn't have any desire to find them."

"I don't. Not exactly. I was just curious if maybe you'd heard something, come across something related to them over the years."

He gave her a look full of curiosity. "You know something about them already, don't you?"

Monica looked back into the house, where only Gibson stood, watching, a revolver still in his hands. She motioned for it, sent him away, and then closed the door. "I don't know much, and I can't ask you to do anything for me when I'm already severely in your debt."

"Monica, if you think it's important, then I can at least look into it. What do you know?"

"That they may have been involved in the conspiracy. It seems they were associates of the man known as C.G.B. Spender."

"I know the name, but little about the man himself. The people he worked for, though… Monica, those are the very people who have facilitated this invasion from the beginning. They are dangerous people."

"I know. I don't want you to go looking for anything… I just wondered if by chance something had come up. A couple involved in the conspiracy who'd given up a child. If you do hear of anything, would you let me know?"

"Why aren't you asking John to look into this?"

"Because I don't want him to make this his priority, and he would. It's not a priority. A large part of me doesn't even want to know. The work they did will prove to be our demise. And I do not wish to dishonor my parents, my real parents, for taking me into their home and their life and raising me as they did."

He looked into her imploring eyes and gave a short nod. "If I learn something, I will pass it on. And I will let you know when I'm ready to call in your debt. As for Diaz, I'm sure you will hear about it from outside sources."

"Thank you. Thank you bringing back Gibson."

He gave another curt nod, his lips tight and his face set to keep from showing emotion. "One more thing, Monica. Don't ever forget that I don't work for you. We may have the same interests and the same goals, but I'm not a trusty sidekick you can call upon whenever you like. I have my own agenda."

_Of course you do_, she thought. "I understand."

With that, he was gone, her debt to him hanging over her head. A few weeks later, the death of Set Diaz, one of the richest men in Mexico, was reported by the media. No one knew if the car accident that had killed him was truly an accident or if he had been murdered. Monica knew, and avoided the news for the rest of the week.


	87. Chapter 87

The summer of 2009 was a peaceful one for the family, and they were all, with the exception of young Vera, very much aware of how fortunate this was. Upon his return, Gibson helped John to finish up the remodeling of the small studio above the garage. John had intended to complete it before the young man's scheduled return, but his own affairs and then those of Gibson's kidnapping put him well behind schedule. The two men found they enjoyed working together, a reminder of simpler days. John even asked for a censored version of Gibson's travels, and enjoyed hearing the tales from the road as he worked.

Though school was over for Vera for the summer, Monica was not about to let up on Gibson's education, and enrolled him in an online university using John's name. "I want you to experience normalcy, or the closest thing we can get to it, even if it's just for a little while." So he moved into his studio apartment, which was rigged with plenty of alarms, as were the garden walls and front gates. He meant to relish his unforced independence, but still found himself at the dinner table every night.

John had calmed since Brad's departure. He did not speak of the man or any of the events that surrounded him, and he most certainly did not ask Monica what had ever transpired of his original proposal or why he'd suddenly disappeared. Part of him was afraid to ask, afraid to find out just how far Monica would go to protect their family. The other part of him was grateful that Brad Follmer was finally gone, and with him all of his own murderous feelings of vengeance.

John cleaved to his wife every night, both love and fear playing their roles in the matter. She seemed to comprehend his need and was neither bothered by his closeness at night or his silence and distance during the days. He felt he hid quite well the later behavior, but she could see through the veneer, she could see through his marked interest in renovating the studio, jumping to their daughter's needs, and his willingness to leave at a moment's notice for anti-syndicate matters, which were admittedly less proficient than she liked.

Their group had grown in size, but it still consisted of only a few dozen people. Everyone knew a lot about what had already occurred, but most couldn't say what was going to happen, and still no one had any idea what could be done. "It's most likely a hopeless fight," said Yves, on an impromptu visit to Mexico City. "Even if your friend is able to convince Covarrubias to join us, what could she possibly offer us? She's received the vaccine, but that does not mean she has access to more, and there's no way to inoculate the entire world population. Don't get me wrong. I've no intention of hiding away somewhere with Jimmy and killing myself when the end is inevitable. I'll fight until my dying breath."

John was not as gung-ho as Yves or as optimistic as Monica, but he did wish more than anything that Monica was right, that the world would be saved. He just didn't see how it could be done. "John, Vera's here for a reason," she would tell him. "William is here for an even greater reason. She will lead us to him, and somehow he will have the answers, or he will be the answer himself. I just know it."

One night, shortly after Vera's fourth birthday, Monica awoke from a nightmare about a baby who had been given up for adoption. She bolted upright with his name on her lips. "William!" John had no time to ask her what she meant by that, for their daughter began to scream from across the hall. Monica tore after her, with John following.

Vera continued to scream as her mother held her tight, stroking her sweat-soaked hair and wiping away the tears that streamed from her eyes.

"Vera, sweetheart, we're here now," said John, holding his daughter's hand. "Everything's alright." She seemed not to hear him or even see him with her opened eyes.

"She's still there, she's still with him," said Monica, not taking her eyes off the child.

"With who?"

"William."

John gave his wife a look that he was lucky she didn't see and put his hand on the girl's cheek. "C'mon Vera, you gotta wake up now, sweetie. It's just a bad dream. Mama and Daddy are here now."

"I don't think it's safe to wake her, like a sleepwalker. She's connected to him right now."

"Monica, this is nonsense," he said, taking Vera from his wife and placing her on her feet. He held her chin in the palm of his hand and looked her dead in the eye. "Vera," he said in a loud, stern voice. "You have to stop screaming now. Listen to me. You need to wake up."

The child's cries quickly tapered off and she looked around disoriented. "They took Mikey," she said, and began to sob anew.

John smiled and pulled her into his arms. "See, Sweetie, it's just a bad dream. Mikey's not real."

"No, it's more than that," said Monica, pulling the dream journal from the nightstand. "V, I want you to tell me everything, every little thing you remember, ok?"

"Mon, it's just a bad dream," John began to say, but she hushed him harshly.

Vera began to tell what she had seen, cocooned in her father's arms, hugging one of them tightly, almost as if her life depending on it. She spoke of Mikey being asleep, of a terrible noise so loud it made her cry again to speak of it, lights blindingly bright, and then lying paralyzed in bed. She spoke of heat so intense that her cheeks again grew red. She shook in her father's arms and he held her even closer.

There were no flames, but the air waved and made everything look bent and contorted, "like looking in a funny mirror at a carnival," the child explained. Two men walked over and in a great flash of light, everything familiar was gone.

"Then he was in a room," she continued, her Spanish fast but mostly understandable. "It was cold and grey. And he hurt. His whole body hurt, Mama. That's why I am crying, because it hurts so much."

When the tale was told, Monica left them to warm us some milk for her daughter, in hopes of helping her fall back asleep. She found Gibson already there, stirring milk in a saucepan as it heated. "I want to go with you," he said simply, not looking up. His abilities had slowly returned over the last two months and he was almost back up to speed.

"I think it's too dangerous for you to leave right now."

"Doesn't matter. I'll go separate. You can't stop me and I know you want me there."

She smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "Now I just have to explain this to John."

After Vera had been lulled back to sleep, Monica began to put all the pieces together for her husband. "I can't believe it took me this long to figure out." She brought Vera's dream journal and a pile of her drawings, which she began to spread out on the desk in the library. They were all pictures of Mikey. On several of them was written, in a variety of spellings, "Mikey Vandycamp."

"I just thought it was a made-up name, something imaginative she'd come up with on her own. But I think it might be William's name. Michael Van de Kamp. That's plausible."

"Whoa. Now what makes you think that this kid Vera's been dreaming about, this _imaginary_ friend of hers, is real? And what the hell makes you think he's William? I don't get the connection."

"I didn't get the connection, so much as I felt it. I was dreaming too when Vera was with him. I felt it, the same feeling I had when I brought him into this world, when I would hold him, when I had to let him go. My connection to William was strong, and I still remember what it felt like to hold him… to love him. It was almost as if he were calling out to me, but I can't explain it more than that."

"What were you dreaming?"

"I was dreaming about saying goodbye to him, before Scully gave him away. I felt like I never got to say goodbye properly, and in my dream, it was happening all over again. I was trying to find him to say goodbye, and though I could hear him crying, everywhere I looked, he was gone. And then it was silent and I knew that he was really gone, and he wasn't coming back, that the adoption was final."

John was struggling, but he'd long since learned by now that to contradict her too much was asking for a fight. "Alright, let's say that Mikey is not only a real kid, but William Scully. How in the world would we ever find him? What Vera described sounded a lot like all those reports in the X-Files of alien abduction. If he's truly been taken, we'd never be able to get to him."

"We just have to start at the most logical point, Wyoming."

It seemed to John as though she'd just thrown a wrench into the workings of his brain. "Wyoming? How exactly is that logical?"

"She's mentioned it before. She told me Mikey lived in Wyoming. I thought it odd that she would ever have heard of the state, but then I learned that one of the other American girls at her preschool has grandparents in Wyoming and went to visit them over the holidays. I thought she might have liked the sound of it and gave it to him as a home. When I asked her where it was, she just shrugged and said she didn't know. But I think that's where we should start looking."

She instructed her baffled husband to find the first available flight to anywhere in Wyoming, while she began scouring the internet for any traces of Van de Kamps in Wyoming, finally settling on one Adam Van de Kamp, a carpenter who lived just outside of a small town called Eden. It was decided that whenever they would fly out, Gibson would buy a ticket in person, on any separate route, and meet them there.

And so it was that less than 24 hours later they found themselves driving to a house at which the local papers had reported a fire. They were still a good distance from the house when Gibson spoke softly. "They're here. Mulder and Scully."

Monica nodded. Part of her expected that.

They pulled up in front of the house, next to another car. Mulder stepped outside before John had even cut the engine. They got out, slowly, Monica removing a sleepy Vera from her child seat and the child wrapped her arms and legs tightly around her mother. They all stood there for a moment, taking it in, the horrific sight before them.

The house still stood, but every square inch of it was blackened, and the yellow crime scene tape stood out harshly against it. It was obvious that a few fires had burnt over it, but they could both see that the house had been burnt not by fire but something else, leaving little for the residual fires to swallow. Monica hugged her daughter tighter, and Vera looked at the shell of the house from the crook of her mother's neck, her little fingers gently twirling strands of her mother's hair. "I think it's Mikey's house," she said in a whisper.

They walked up to a grim-faced Mulder. John reached out a hand and the two men shared a handshake and a solemn nod of acknowledgment. Mulder smiled at Gibson, though it was a sad smile. "You've grown up a little since I last saw you," he said and the two hugged. But he soon broke away and looked at Monica, his eyes searching her face for something. "Thank you for taking care of him," he said, though she knew it wasn't what he really wanted to say.

"He's a good kid. We were… honored to do so," she said, looking at the young man as she spoke.

"And who's this little girl?" he asked.

"Vera. Vera, this is Fox Mulder, William's father."

She'd never heard them speak of Mulder by another other name than his last name and her tired eyes grew wide. "Como un zorro?" she asked. _Like a fox_?

"Sí. But I think he prefers Mulder."

"If she wants to call me Zorro, then so be it," he said smiling. "As long as I don't have to start wearing a cape and carrying a sword."

There were awkward smiles and silence. It wasn't the time for humor and they all knew it.

"Where's Dana?" asked Monica, and Mulder nodded, tilting his head to the side, indicating that she was in the house. Monica handed her drowsy daughter to her husband. Upon entering the burnt remains of the house, Monica's eyes fell immediately not on the sheer destruction, but on the solitary figure of Dana Scully, seated in a charred but sturdy rocking chair. Her hair was loose and long, and now dyed pale red in color, a change she'd felt more respectable for a woman her age.

She was beautiful, even in her grief. There was nothing she could say, and it felt inappropriate to speak, so without a word she approached the woman whom she hadn't seen or contacted in so many years and sat beside her on the unsteady shell of an end table, taking her hand in her own, resting her elbows on her knees, and bowing her head as if in prayer.

Some minutes passes before Scully spoke. Her voice was strained as she tried valiantly to not cry. "Hello Monica. I always knew I'd see you again. Part of me knew I'd see you very soon. Now here you are," she said, almost lost in her own thoughts.

"This was William's home, wasn't it?" asked Monica.

"Yes. I've been all over the house, but all the pictures seem to be black and ash." Though her voice was calm and emotionless, Monica could see her scrambling frantically through the house, grabbing one picture frame after another, her despair growing.

"Did he call you here?"

Scully merely nodded. The tears were building in her eyes and her voice was gone again.

"He called us for a reason. He needs us to help him. And if he needs help, that means he's still alive. We will find him. You know that."

Scully nodded more vigorously as her face crumbled into tears. "I don't even know what he looks like."

"There was a picture in the local paper. It was old. He looked to be about Vera's age," she said, adding. "Vera's my daughter. She's outside with John, Mulder and Gibson. When you're ready, we should leave. We shouldn't be at the crime scene."

Dana nodded, and still holding tightly to Monica's hand, stood up and allowed herself to be escorted outside. The daylight was almost too much for her – Monica hadn't known that she'd been sitting inside for nearly three hours, lost in guilt and despair. Still, she managed to greet her former partner and the child in his arms, as well Gibson. She felt a pang of remorse, almost sharp enough to make her wretch, when she remembered that she hadn't been able to protect him any more than she'd been able to protect her own son.

"I don't blame you for anything," he told her. "William won't either." Fresh tears stirred in her eyes, and they agreed to meet again in town to assess the situation.


	88. Chapter 88

They reconvened at a diner, so like all the diners they had patronized during their years investigating crimes in small towns. Monica could tell looking at the faces of her friends that she was the only one who truly believed that all would end well; even Gibson and John wore long faces, though she knew John's own history complicated this for him, and Gibson was too busy swimming in the unhappy thoughts of those around him. Vera seemed content, coloring on the children's placemat brought to her by their ebullient waitress.

"Name tag says Victoria, but y'all just go ahead and holler 'Tori!' if you need anything at all." The woman fixed her energies on Monica, the only person at the table able to give a real smile, and spent a few seconds doting on her little girl for good measure.

They read the article in the paper closely, trying to figure out from the meager details what had happened. All that the paper reported was that the house had caught on fire in the middle of the night, while the family was sleeping. Mr. and Mrs. Van de Kamp's bodies were found still in their bed. Their son's body wasn't found, but no one was sure whether the fire had just burned so hot that there was just nothing left, or if he'd been taken or escaped. There was no evidence showing this, but investigators were hopeful, wrote the reporter.

"They left something out," said Mulder wearily. "I went up to his room. His bed was barely touched. Flames didn't destroy that house, either. And I'm guessing that the condition of the bodies would show that they succumbed to radiation burns."

When she returned with their food, she noticed the local paper the red headed woman was examining with the man beside her.

"Terrible tragedy," she said, her voice low and serious, and her hand held to her heart as she shook her head. The look on her face showed that the deaths had indeed caused her pain.

"Did you know the family?" asked Mulder, his own emotions very much hidden.

"Not too well. Back in the day we attended the same church, but they stopped attending a few years ago. Nice family though. They sure did love that boy when they got him. He was adopted, you know. Cutest baby you ever did see. His parents just doted on him back then."

"Back then? Did something change?" asked Monica.

"Well, something changed, but no one knows what. About four years ago, when Mikey was in kindergarten, they suddenly pulled him out. Decided to home school him, I guess. I mean, a lot of families out here do that. But they didn't even join in the home schooling group. And a lot of people thought they were doing it for religious reasons, that maybe they left the church too for that – you know, they wanted more than the church could give them and they wanted to protect their son from all the nonsense they teach in the schools these days, but I heard from a teacher friend of mine that the Van de Kamp's were borrowing the exact same textbooks they use in the schools. Some of us guess that maybe the boy was sick or something, like one of them diseases you get where you can't be around germs or something. Boy in the plastic bubble, you know? Because for the last four years, no one had seen him. They pulled him out of sports, school, church, and locked him up in that farmhouse. Minister used to go out there from time to time, but I heard from his wife that they didn't let him in the house and would only let him have a quick look at the boy, assuring him that everything was fine and they just wanted their privacy." She blinked a few times and then sighed. "I'm sorry, I'm taking up all of your eating time with terrible stories."

"No, it's ok. Did you ever hear any rumors about what was wrong with him?"

"No. I asked Dr. Barron a few times at church, real polite and concerned, how the boy was doing, but he wouldn't say more than, 'Just fine.' I know that he came out there for visits and such so that they didn't have to take him from the house. And I figured the boy was ok, or else the doctor would have called the authorities, you know?"

"What was he like?" asked Dana, her voice on the verge of cracking. "Before he was hidden away, what was he like?"

"Oh, just a delight! Beautiful little boy. Great smile. A little wild as all boys are at that age. But a smart kid too. By the time he was three, he could recite the Lord's Prayer perfectly, and good enough for anyone to understand. That was the talk of the church for a few Sundays. Other than that, though, I don't know much. And it's still a great loss. I pray every night that he's unhurt, that he somehow managed to escape the fire and maybe he'll come home soon. But they spend two days with sniffer dogs searching the land and fields out there, and found no trace of anyone coming or going. I'll keep praying for a miracle. Perhaps you can too. The more voices calling up to God, the better. Oh, that poor little boy!" With that, she walked away, one hand pressed to her eyes.

Dana too began to cry, and Monica reached across the table to take her hands, the smile on her face loving and reassuring. "He's going to be alright, Dana."

"How do you know that?" she asked, with a hint of anger in her tone.

"Because Vera was put on this planet to find him, and because I had a vision before she was born of all of us, you, Mulder, and William too, some four years still in the future, and we were all well and happy." She chose that moment to explain the details of her vision, though she thought best to save John's vision for later. When Dana looked at the four-year-old girl before her with incredulity, Monica also explained her dreams, her connection to William, the young boy now known as Michael. Vera continued to color, picking at her food from time to time, but entirely speechless so far.

"I'm sorry, but unless she suddenly opens her mouth and tells us where he is, I need facts. I need evidence. I need more than to hear about a dream you had five years ago."

"I understand," said Monica. "And all that I know is she'll lead us to him, which means he'll be ok. It doesn't mean we're not going to have to work very hard to find him."

Dana nodded, while staring at her barely touched salad. "I'd like to stay here a few days, to see if anyone else knows more. Perhaps Skinner can get the FBI on this."

"I'll call him as soon as we check into a motel for the night," said Mulder, who gently squeezed her hand, drawing her attention again. "Will you be staying as well? We could use your help. And I've heard it through the grapevine that you are trying to build some sort of network to help during the invasion."

Monica managed to keep her smile from beaming. "I have. It's still small, but now that the two of you are back, we can see to growing it. But I'm not sure how long I can stay. I've got a job, and it's not the kind of job I can just slip away from."

"See what you can do, alright?" She nodded.

They paid their bills, and after some advice from Tori the waitress, they started off in search of a chain motel down in Rock Springs, a good thirty miles away, but better than anything Eden had to offer.

John followed Mulder down the road that had led them to the diner and then to highway 191, which would take them to Rock Springs. They came to a four-way stop, where an old beat-up hatchback was trying to turn. Gibson sat up in his seat, staring intensely at the car, his head following it as it turned before them and started to head the way they'd come.

"We need to follow that car," he said urgently, and John, showing his trust in the young man, honked his horn at Mulder and Scully, before using the intersection to turn around and head back into Eden.

"You mind telling me why we're galloping off after this junker?"

"The driver knows something. We're going to stay where he's staying."

Relieved to see Mulder and Scully in the rearview mirror, John just shrugged his shoulders. "Ok, kid. Whatever you say."

The man Gibson had noticed had already disappeared into his room by the time they pulled into the lot of the isolated and somewhat dilapidated Garden Inn. "What's going on?" asked Mulder to John as he stepped out of the car.

Gibson spoke instead. "There's a man here who has been following the ship for a while. It's what he does." He pointed to room 7.

Mulder knocked on the door, and a frazzled, nervous man answer. The recognition of both parties was immediate. His reaction to the other three former FBI agents was similar, for Richie Szalay had through two separate events, come into contact with all of them.


	89. Chapter 89

A/N: Happy Colonization Day!

* * *

"Richie, right?" asked Mulder. "You're the one whose friend was taken back in 2000."

"Right before you went missing. You're here about the craft from a couple nights ago?"

"I think we are. You know something about it?"

"More than I wish I knew." He invited them in, though Gibson opted to stay outside with Vera, reminding them that there was nothing in there that Vera needed to hear and that he'd still be able to follow along from outside.

"I've been following this one for almost three months, but only because of what it did the first time, which I didn't witness. I'd been tracking some sightings in the Midwest. One of my buddies from MUFON emailed me a copy of a newspaper report about a fire and said that there'd been a confirmed UFO sighting in the area the same night. I rushed out here. I mean, it's practically unheard of that they would be so messy, leaving behind a fire and dead bodies. And then, right when I got to Wyoming, when there was another. Same thing. A few more weeks pass, and then another… This one was the fourth."

"What can you tell us about the people who died?" asked Mulder.

"They're all pretty similar. Families. But I did notice one thing. In every single case, there was a seven- or eight-year-old boy killed. And now this one, the boy's body is missing. I think that they've been looking for someone. And this time, I think maybe they found him."

"Any idea why they would be looking for an eight-year-old boy?"

"No clue. It seems strange to me that they would care. And that they wouldn't know exactly where to find the one they wanted."

"Maybe they didn't exactly know who they were looking for," said John, speaking up. "Anything odd about the boys in the first three families?"

"Not that I know of. They were all white, middle-class, regular kids."

"No, I mean, afterward. Did these all happen at night? Where were the bodies found? What condition were they found in?" John asked.

"I, uh, I don't really know. Nothing different mentioned in the papers." Richie stopped talking and looked towards the stacks of manila folders and papers sitting on the table. "Wait, there might have been something." He got up and shuffled through the papers in one folder – news clippings mostly – and found what he was looking for, taking his time to read it.

"Yeah, there was something. The second one. The kid's name was Russell… his body was found in pretty decent condition. They were able to identify him, but had to use dental records for his two little sisters. God, this shit is sad." He took a second to compose himself and finally looked back at his guests. "Why did you ask that, about the bodies?"

"I think maybe they didn't know exactly who they were looking for. I think maybe they had to figure it out first. Maybe they took him, you know, and when they realized he wasn't what they wanted, they just dropped him off."

"Why were they looking for him?" asked Scully, hysteria creeping into the edges of her voice. "How did they know?" She took Mulder's hand and looked up at him. "They know now, don't they? And that means you're not safe, again."

"What do they know?" asked Richie, mystified.

When no one spoke, Monica stepped in to answer. "There's a prophesy, that a certain boy born eight years ago would either one day fight on the side of the aliens, but only if his father was dead, or that he would fight for humanity, were his father alive. That prophesy was about Mulder and Scully's son, so they gave him up for adoption to protect him. We think that the child that was taken was their son. That's why we're here."

"Wow. I… I've actually heard that before, about a boy who would save the world. Read it on a forum once, but I thought it was just wishful thinking, some return of Jesus stuff. Does this mean they're going to actually invade?"

"It means that if the prophesy is true, then we need to keep Mulder safe so that there's a chance for survival."

"But you said he'd just fight for one side or the other. That doesn't mean anything. He's just one person, and right now, he's just a kid. I'm not sure how that could be an advantage."

"That's all that we know," said Monica, not wanting to give away anything about the abilities William had as an infant. "It's late. We should get going. How about breakfast tomorrow to figure out our next step?"

Settled into their new rooms, only Vera fell asleep with ease, but in the early hours of the morning, she began to cry. Though not the screams of her previous nightmare, it was enough to draw the attention of Dana, who was soon knocking on their door. John answered, as Monica was sitting with her daughter, trying both to calm her and ease the details of her dream out of her. Gibson nodded to their guest as he sat on the corner of his bed, ready to fill in anything Vera might have trouble verbalizing.

"I heard her crying and thought she might have had another dream. Do you mind if I stay to listen?" Welcomed in, Dana felt suddenly out of place and held her arms around her tightly. She had known three of these people before, and now here they were again, together, a fully functioning family unit. But she needed to know what the child had dreamt, if it was about her son and if it would help bring him home sooner.

Gibson moved over and Dana took a seat beside him. The little girl, to whom she had barely spoken two words, looked at her with wet lashes and red eyes, then to her mother, whose gentle voice told her in English to speak.

Her dream was of William, whom she still called Mikey. She spoke of the darkness that lay beyond a small source of light, and how neither of them knew what lay beyond it. She spoke being trapped in a chair, of not being able to get up, of seeing Mikey opposite her in the same situation. She spoke of his tears and began to cry again herself. Her entire speech was a mixture of Spanish and English, and while Dana could not understand all of it, she was still left in tears of her own.

With Vera settled back in bed, Monica walked Dana to the door. "Do you still smoke?" Dana asked her quietly.

Monica smiled and shook her head. "Not any longer."

Dana reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a small silver cigarette case. "Care to sit with me then? If the smoke won't bother you, of course." Monica agreed.

The sat outside on the curb in the cool nighttime air. Monica found herself rationalizing a cigarette, her first in seven years, and finally gave in.

"I didn't know that you smoked," Monica said, drawing a long drag and holding it in her lungs as long as she could.

"I don't, really. I did when I was a teenager. A couple times since."

"Well, is it helping?" asked Monica, finding Dana's awkwardness with the cigarette to be minimal, with a certain grace underneath. But then, there was little Dana Scully did without grace.

Dana exhaled, the smoke snaking upwards, disappearing into the night. "Not really. But I feel better now that you're here. After the dream, before we could get here, it was a nightmare."

"What was your dream about?"

"I ached… the way a mother aches for her child when it's hurt. It was physically painful. But it wasn't William that I saw or heard. It was my sister's voice. The last time I heard her voice was when Emily…" She stopped for several seconds, collecting herself. "I've never told you about Emily. When they took me, back in '94, they took my ova. And Emily was the result of that. She wasn't fully human, not biologically, though she looked human, but when I met her, she was just a sick, frightened child. I tried to protect her – I tried to adopt her once I learned she was genetically mine – but she died. They left her to die, to protect their secrets. Melissa had called out to me to save her. And then Melissa was there, in my dream, her voice telling me to come here, to find my son.

"We've been living on an island. It's remote. Hard to leave when you need to. But Mulder got us off the island within 2 hours, and then we had to deal with airlines and transfers. He took care of it all. I feel so useless. I've never felt this useless in my life."

"You're not useless. It is an emotionally exhausting ordeal, but you're both here because of your dream, because your sister called out to you, because you could feel William and the pain he was suffering. It may be scary for him, right now, wherever he is, but I think the worst of it is over for him. Vera only spoke of him being frightened, not in pain."

"I had visions of Mulder, when he was taken. He was in a chair too, but he was in so much pain. And they had hurt him."

"William is different. They need him. They won't do anything to jeopardize that."

Scully nodded, unconvinced. "When we finish, will you come inside and tell me about her dreams? I want to know what she knows of him. I know nothing of my son." She wiped away a tear and Monica placed her hand over hers.

"Of course," she said, and the two finished their cigarettes, staring at the black sky dotted with stars.

For two hours, until the sun came up, she told them everything she could remember from Vera's dreams. She spoke of the strange connection the children shared through dreams – dream telepathy, Mulder interjected; mutual dreaming, she added – and told them what she gathered of the boy's personality. Vera found him entertaining and fun, but Monica always sensed a loneliness to it, which she'd just assumed was her own transference onto the boy based on the lives they had lived, but now, hearing that he'd been cut off from the rest of his community, she no longer doubted this.

In the next room, she could hear her daughter waking and her husband's muted voice. "The next time we meet, I'll bring her dream journals for you to examine. I only wish I could understand why they share the connection they do. Maybe it's just as simple as a connection formed when I delivered William, or maybe it's much more than that. Mysteries of the universe that we are not meant to fully understand."

Mulder moved to the table at which she sat. "Come to my house in Connecticut. There are things that I – that we – need to show you." She didn't know if he'd ever looked at her so intensely. Whatever was going on was important.

"I need to get back to Mexico. Maybe I can arrange for some time off soon. But Vera will be starting school again in three weeks. It may be a while before I can manage another trip. John can go on with you, though. There's nothing you could not tell him instead."

"This is something for your ears first, not his."

"Monica, please come," said Scully and she could see in her eyes the same urgency.

"Alright, maybe I can tack on a couple more days, but no more than that." They seemed happy with her decision.


	90. Chapter 90

She returned to her room a few minutes later, greeted by a kiss on the forehead from her husband. He stopped and looked at her before moving in again.

"You been smoking?" he asked.

"Dana started it," she said with a smile.

He pulled her into his arms and took another deep breath before kissing her long and hard. She smelled as she had so many years ago, back when she was inaccessible. He missed those days, a little. Right now, closing his eyes, it was like he'd gone back in time and had stolen a kiss from a woman he never thought he'd have a chance with.

She pulled away from him and said his name softly, looking over at their watchful audience.

"Need me to take Vera out to breakfast?" asked Gibson with a smirk.

"Can't a man kiss his wife without comments from the peanut gallery? Anyway, we gotta meet with Richie in an hour."

"Please," said Gibson. "Like you need more than five minutes."

"Boy, you know that ain't true," said John. _And you best not speak that way in front of my daughter again, or I will tan your telepathic hide_.

An hour later, they are seated at a table at the same diner as before, draining Richie of all of his knowledge, initiating him into the anti-syndicate. He was their on-the-ground man, ready and willing to investigate any UFO sightings and scenes. "They know me, the other UFO hunters. They hear something, I'm the first person they contact. I've been doing this for more years than I can count now. It's not just what I do, it's who I am."

A few hours after that, and they were again at the airport, this time booking flights for Connecticut, where they arrived late that night.

Mulder hadn't done much with the place, but it was fully furnished. Scully apologized for the clutter – said in reference to the one room in which all of her belongings were stowed. It was too late to talk, for everyone's eyes were drooping and the youngest member of their group would be up bright and early.

The next morning, they were greeted to the smell of eggs and something bacony – which turned out to be tofu bacon, or "faken," as Dana referred to it. Only Monica managed to enjoy it, while everyone else pulled faces, and Vera flat out said she didn't like it. "You'd think," said Mulder, "that after all these years, I'd have gotten used to the fake meat she forces me to eat, but if anything, it only makes me more dedicated to carnivorism. Woman, can we not serve our guests real bacon?" he asked with a laugh.

Scully glared at him. "You want bacon, you better go slaughter a pig. But if you want me to do that shopping at six in the morning, and you get faken." She sat down with a plate, but made no attempt to eat. "Did your daughter dream about William last night?" she asked Monica.

"No, not last night. I'm sorry."

Scully nodded and then nibbled on her faken before putting it back down. "You might as well tell her now, Mulder," she said.

"Thank god, a reprieve from the faken." He pushed his plate over to Gibson with a wink and went into his study. He emerged with a manila folder, which he set before her, though he left his hand resting on it.

"Do you know that you were adopted?" he asked, jumping in.

"Yes…" she answered, giving him a look of confusion.

"Do you know anything about your birth parents?"

She shook her head. "No. I mean, I've wondered a little over the years, of course. I know some about my adoption, but nothing specific about my parents, only things that I can infer given the circumstances of the adoption." She looked at him, unsure of how much information she should divulge. "I know that the man you refer to as the cancer man, your biological father, facilitated my adoption. It's a small world, isn't it?" she added with a smile.

"It's about to get a lot smaller." Mulder removed his hand and she slowly reached for the folder, looking at her husband for reassurance. Was she truly ready to learn this information? Did she want to do this with such an audience? Her hand held the cover, but she wavered about opening it.

"What in the folder?" John asked Mulder.

"It's for Monica to see, if she wants to."

She pulled it closer to her. "It's about my birth parents?"

He nodded. "Birth certificate, photographs, a letter."

She looked again at her husband who nodded at her, and at her daughter who was watching her intensely. And then she opened the folder.

There was a birth certificate in front. Not just a copy. An actual birth certificate. She ran her fingers over the name. Anne Yanaha Kee. She had a name once, before being Monica, before being handed to Esteban and Alejandra Reyes. For three whole days, she'd been Anne. But her birth mother, Tiba Kee, had probably held her once, and called her that. She traced that name too, and wondered now as never before who that woman was, what she looked like, what had been her fate.

"Tiba Kee, what kind of name is that?" Monica asked when she had a voice again.

"Navajo. She was half Navajo. She had a white father, and had been raised off the reservation, out in California. Had an education second to none. Became a scientist, a physicist, under the name of Anne Henson, but when she was twenty-five, the year you were born, she abruptly moved back to the reservation and took her mother's name."

"Is she still alive?" Monica's heart was in her throat.

"I don't know. If she is, she's living under a different name. But I doubt she's still living, given the company she kept."

"My birth father?" she asked. "Does this have to do with colonization and the conspiracy? Is there a reason there is no name where the father should be listed?"

Mulder reached over and moved the birth certificate to the other side revealing an envelope. Inside were a few old photographs. There was one of a woman wearing sunglasses, shorts, and a halter top, standing on a ledge in the desert, the photo taken by someone who was standing beneath her. Another was a professional work photo, she in her white lab coat with the name Anne Henson stitched above the breast pocket. The resemblance was striking – Monica had inherited her eyes, her nose, her mouth, her facial structure.

"She looks just like you, Mon," said John, placing a comforting hand on her thigh.

"I look like her," she corrected.

She pulled out the next picture. It was her birth mother again, wearing a party dress and sitting on a couch. In the chair beside her, engaging in conversation with her, was a man in a suit, a cigarette resting in his fingers. "Is that Spender?" she asked. Mulder nodded. "He's the man who facilitated my adoption. He literally handed me over to my father."

There were four more pictures in the file. Another of just Tiba, lounging on a beach in a bikini, smiling at the photographer, and three more of her with Spender. In the last one, a group shot, he stood beside her, his arm wrapped possessively around her. Monica put the photograph back down and began to tremble ever so slightly.

"Is he my birth father?" she asked in a scarcely audible voice, not even daring to look Mulder in the eye.

"I think so. I found this amongst his personal belongings. That's the original birth certificate. If you had gone looking for this information, assuming they would have let you near it, you wouldn't have found this. It's as if you never existed before the adoption took place. He was hiding the evidence."

She finally managed to look up at him, a smile of disbelief dancing on his lips. "This means that you're my brother, doesn't it?"

"Half. Yes."

If she could have jumped up from the table and wrapped her arms around him, she would have, but her legs were like jelly, so instead she reached a hand out to him. "I know I'm not the sister you've been searching for all these years, Mulder, but still, this is incredible. More than incredible. This is fate. And Dana, you once told me I reminded you of your sister, and now you're practically my sister-in-law. My god. Look at us. We were just friends sitting at this table, and now we're all family. It's just astounding." She beamed with joy.


	91. Chapter 91

A/N: My goodness! I haven't updated since last year? Where does all that time go? Oh, yeah, into grad school…

Don't expect much in the way of updates any time soon. This will have to tide you over until I graduate. Good news though: Graduation is in June! Until then, when I'm not reading hundreds of pages a week of dry scholarly articles about research… or articles about teaching vocabulary… or French novels in preparation for a French proficiency exam… or the exquisite poetical prose of Nabokov, then I will be reading up on the Navajo, trying to create one more X-file. I've got a nice storyboard going in my room and a couple books on mystical Navajo things (there must be an X-file in there somewhere!), and even though I'm not typing anything out, I am always writing in my head. I will return in just a couple months, hopefully with something wonderful for you all!

* * *

Mulder squeezed her hand. "I think this might explain why Vera and William have a connection." He squeezed her hand once more, smiling at her, before pulling away. "There's a letter too, if you want to read it. It's not much, but it is from your mother, your birthmother, I mean. It's her pleading to be left alone, to be able to keep you and live in obscurity. You can see how wrinkled the letter is. I imagine he did not take the request well."

She read it, as best she could now that her nerves were alight and her head spinning from the unimaginable news. Her birthmother had written in anger that might have been masking her fear. "_They told me not to trust you, but I was a foolish child and chose to ignore them. Now I see, as I learn that you have been spying on me, snooping into my life, and questioning those I love about me, that you were indeed not to be trusted. I had intended to keep this from you, for even before the disturbing foray into my personal life, I had begun to have my doubts and suspicions about you. I have heard from others – for if you are allowed to spy on me, then surely I am allowed the same of you – that you are married! And not only married, but that you have an infant son! The lies you have told all this time are atrocious. How I hate myself for not seeing through them, and certainly for not seeing through them before I found myself in this situation. _

"_So I offer you this solution – let me be. Let me and this child be. I will not seek to destroy your marriage and family, I will not seek to discredit you in any way. I simply want to return to my mother's people and raise this child in peace. I deserve that, after all of your maliciousness. I expect you to accept my offer._

"_Anne."_

"But he didn't accept her offer. He forced her to give me up."

"Yes."

"Maybe she did return to her people. John, I want to look for her. If she's still alive, I want to find her."

"Of course," replied her husband.

"I have contacts, but you must realize that the Navajo Nation is incredibly large. There are at least 300,000 people living there, spread across three states. But I've heard you've had some training in this kind of investigation," said Mulder with a smile and they began to talk, just casually, two people who'd first met years ago and now looked on one another as brother and sister.

At some point, John realized that Gibson was no longer in the room. He'd been entertaining his daughter while Monica, Mulder and Scully all caught up with one another and tentatively tested out their newfound connection. But while he trusted all was well with Gibson, he still felt it his duty to keep an eye on the young man, and so handed Vera off to the other adults and stepped outside.

The young man was there, chucking small rocks at a tree. He didn't respond to John, and John didn't force a conversation on him, but simply settled down into the tall grass, watching Gibson for several minutes.

"I really don't want to talk," said Gibson finally, putting a little more force into his next throw. "You're probably right, but I just don't want to talk."

John nodded. He knew Gibson had been ecstatic to be reunited with Mulder – well, as ecstatic as the stone-faced young man could be – and instead, Williams' abduction and now Monica's connection to Mulder had all overshadowed what should have been a more fulfilling reunion. He also had to admit that while he'd always tried to keep his distance from Gibson, never treading on father-figure territory, he still felt a little possessive. After all, he'd kept him safe for seven years now, even taken a bullet for him. And where had Mulder been in all this? He'd simply left Gibson in their care and gone into hiding.

He wondered in a pointed question, specifically for the young man to hear, if he wanted to be left there, with Mulder and Scully, instead of returning with them to Mexico City.

Gibson threw another rock, this one hitting the trunk of the tree with a satisfying clunk, and turned around to face John.

"I don't know. Part of me wants to, but the rest of me knows that Mulder's on a mission. William's kidnapping has changed him. He's ready to start fighting again. He's not going to sit here in this house and wait for the end to come. And I don't think he's going to want me around. I don't even know that he'll want anyone around, even Scully. He wants answers, and I'd just slow him down."

"What are you talking about? If anything, you'd be the perfect asset."

"I think I scare him a little. No, not because of my ability. It's the whole emotional thing. I kind of scare him because I'm not the boy he left behind, and he knows that. What he doesn't know is what I'm like now, what our relationship will be. He can't simply hang out with me, small talking about basketball or his teenage years. He knows I've changed and he's not sure how to deal with that."

"What a crock of shit," said John, giving a little scornful laugh. "Only way to solve that is to spend time with you. Look, I tell you what, Mon and I will go stay in a motel somewhere, and you can stay here, ok? That way, you two can start getting to know each other again, and then you can decide what you want to do."

Gibson thought it over, finally looking at John for a second and giving a barely perceptible tilt of his head to accept the offer.

When they returned, Mulder looked up and smiled at Gibson, and John noticed a slight smile on the young man's face as well. "I can come with you, right?" asked Gibson.

"I'd like that very much," said Monica. When her husband gave her a confused look, she clarified. "Mulder and I were talking about visiting New Mexico. He knows people there. And it's close to where Gibson was hiding back in the day. It's as good a place as any to start looking for what happened to Tiba Kee."

"If Gibson comes," said Mulder, "then he can suss out who recognizes her picture or her name better than anyone else."

"So you're just including him because he's a human polygraph machine?" asked John, ready to make sure that Mulder realized he needed to value Gibson more than he'd be doing.

"Of course not," said Mulder, edgily.

"It's ok," Gibson broke in, before Mulder could continue. "I don't mind helping Monica at all. And I want to go back and see if Craig is still there."

"And when are you thinking of going?" asked John to his wife.

"Soon," she said, locking her eyes on him, ready to shoot him a warning look if he let his argumentative tone get in the way.

"What about your job?"

"I'm going to quit. I'll give them my notice and then I'm joining the fight full time."

"And how are we going to get by?"

"John, it's not like my job pays that much as it is. You know my father's been stepping up and taking care of things. And we've still got some of the anti-syndicate money." She seemed irritated suddenly, but John knew that someone had to think of practical matters, if she wouldn't.

"He's got a point," said Mulder. "And it brings up something I wanted to talk about – your anti-syndicate, as you call it and how you're going to support it."

"Ok, honestly," said Monica, her voice soft, "I don't know how we're going to keep it going financially." She looked up at her husband, the sole employee of the anti-syndicate. "We've already burned through half of our funds trying to track down people that might be able to help. It's only been a year. I don't think we'll make it through another year."

"You're missing something more than money, though," said Mulder, who looked at Monica, and then turned his attention to Gibson.

"Power," said the young man.

Mulder nodded. "The names on your list are good. You got people with great skills and interests in fighting this war. But there is no one with any power whatsoever."

"Except for me," added Gibson.

"And even then…"

"I'm not enough."

"I've always included Gibson in this fight," Monica replied. "But at the same time, I've always wanted as much of a normal life as possible for him. I would never ask him to contribute in any way that would put him in danger."

"But it's time I stepped up," said Gibson. The look on his face struck Monica. For the first time, she truly saw him as a man, and it was hard to see the 14-year-old boy she'd first come to know. "You think," he said to Mulder, "that I should be the one travelling, not John. You think I am the only one who can really do the job."

"No way," John said, his voice rising. "We spend seven years of our lives protecting him, and you want him to just go off and be a free agent all of a sudden? What happened to the days when you feared for his life? Now you're suddenly ready to sacrifice him to fight your war?"

"John," Monica warned, her voice calm, and a hand cautiously falling on his arm.

"No, I'm sorry, but this is bullshit," he said, oblivious to the fact that his daughter was in the room and listening to every word.

"Mulder and Gibson are right though." It was Scully, speaking up for the first time. John couldn't raise his voice to her and settled back into his chair. "He's not a child any more. And he's got a gift that no one else has, a gift that has more power than any amount of money or title or knowledge. What value does it have if he is kept in hiding?"

"I'm ready. I can play my part."

"Like hell you can. Where were you just six months ago? I seem to recall you'd gotten yourself into some kind of situation that required a few million dollars and the aid of Brad Follmer to be fixed."

Mulder turned to look at Gibson and started to laugh. "Dare I even ask?"

"I'll tell you later."

"This is serious though. He may be older, but the threats on his life are just as real as they ever were. And to put him in those situations only increases the risks that something will happen," John warned.

"I think it's ultimately Gibson's decision, though, isn't it?" asked Mulder lightly.

"John," said Gibson, his voice firm, "he's right, and you know he's right. Maybe this is what I was put on this planet to do. I'm certainly the only one on this planet who can and will do it."

John sat down, fuming. "You know it's true," Gibson continued. "You know that no matter how good your tracking skills are, I will always hold the advantage."

"And he'll be with us on this first run through," said Monica. "You're not losing your job, either. Gibson's still just one person. He can't track down everyone we need all by himself."

So it was settled, against John's better judgment. Gibson remained behind while John and Monica returned to Mexico City. Monica saw her daughter off to her first day of kindergarten and turned in her notice. Senora Vega, however, was less than happy to receive it. "The work you've done here is exceptional. I need someone with your credentials on my team. Now, I understand that you've got family matters to attend to, but surely they won't keep you away forever?"

"It's possible. There seems to be a lot of … drama," she said, for lack of a better way to frame colonization. "But I promise, if circumstances allow, I will return, in some capacity."


	92. Chapter 92

A/N - Y'all probably thought this thing was dead in the water, didn't you? Well, it's not, and there's still sooooo much that I need to write. I just have to make the time and then do the writing. Since the last post, I've completed grad school (3.92 gpa!) and worked a horrible, soul-destroying job (teaching an intensive class with no textbook or curriculum is a special kind of hell I never want to experience again.) But even though the fall quarter is filling up, I'm going to do my damndest to carve out a sacred half hour each day to write, as I did before grad school. And after I post this chapter, I'm going to get back to work on the actual X-file that will soon be taking place.

I apologize for the insane delay, and I thank you all for waiting and reading!

* * *

She was happy to see them, Mulder and Gibson, when she drove up to the motel outside of Gallup, New Mexico. Gibson she greeted with a hug, ruffling his hair and kissing his forehead. Mulder was a different story. She'd had a couple weeks to let it all sink in, but they were weeks spent apart from him. Now he stood before her, her own flesh and blood. It had dawned on her recently that there were only three people in the world she could describe as her own flesh and blood – Vera, Mulder, and quite unfortunately, Jeffrey Spender. Not that it bothered her, and not that she thought any less of her family. She was more than ready to accept Mulder fully into that family and she outstretched her arms to him too.

He returned her hug a little weakly, as though he were trying to keep some distance between them, as though he were unsure of what she meant to him. They chatted a little, making her realize that he wasn't sure what to do about a newfound sister any more than she knew what to do with a newfound brother.

"How long have you known?" she asked, as they sat around the motel table eating pizza.

"About three years."

"How did you find out? I mean, surely you didn't just stumble into the Smoking Man's secret lair on your own."

"I was sent there."

"By whom?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Are you mistaking me for my husband?" she asked, giving a laugh.

"Mulder, just tell her," said Gibson, reaching for another slice of pizza.

"I'm a haunted man," he said glibly. "_I see dead people_."

Monica gave him a pained smile, the one she often gave her 4-year-old daughter when she was trying too hard to be cute.

"He means it," said Gibson, his mouth full of food.

"So a ghost told you this?"

Mulder ran his fingers through his hair. "That cigarette smoking son of a bitch. He pointed me in the right direction. He's just as cryptic in death as he was in life."

"You're being pretty cryptic yourself."

He sighed. "I've only admitted this to Scully. Obviously, our young friend here knows as well."

"Are you afraid I'm going to tell someone? Or are you afraid I'm not going to believe? I'm not sure what is holding you back."

"Sometimes, in moments of great duress, the spirits come to me. When my life was at stake, when they were threatening to put me to death, they came to me, the spirits of those who had helped me during their lifetimes."

"That is not entirely unheard of. Scully saw you just before you were returned from the ship, and she said she'd seen her father once before. I saw my own mother, briefly, during my wedding. Even John, though he'd be hard pressed to admit it, has some sort of post-death connection to his son."

"It's not that, though. They can transcend the barriers between spirit and corporeal. Do you know how I got Marita Covarubbias' address? A former contact of mine, dead some six years, handed me a slip of paper with the address. How do you explain that?"

Monica was silent.

"The others – friends, informants, colleagues, enemies – they only came to me then, when I was in prison and trying to escape. A few weeks ago, my mother told me where to find William. But in between, that cigarette smoking bastard has haunted me. He rarely has anything useful to say, sometimes he just sits and watches me. His smoke lingers for days afterward."

"Why did he decide to say something about me?"

"I don't know. He'd been coming around for days, just watching. He'd only appear for a minute, maybe less. Enough to piss me off. But he didn't say anything. And then he suddenly opened his mouth. 'In 1969, I had an affair with a young physicist,' he said. And then he vanished. Days later, he appears again. 'Houses hold a lot of secrets. Some of those secrets are about your sister.' I ignored him. 'Don't you want to know about your sister? Walls can contain so many secrets.'

"You've got to understand that I found out about my sister's last years after stumbling upon her diary in the walls of an old house on an army base. He knew. I told him I knew everything there was to know about my sister, and nothing he could say or show me would ever change what had happened to her. Then he disappeared again.

"I put it out of my mind. It wasn't any more disturbing than anything else he'd said to me before. But he wasn't finished. He came to me one more time, telling me that the house was about to be demolished, and that it held so many more secrets. 'My life wasn't long enough to share with you everything I knew. Do you realize how fortunate I am that death isn't the end I feared it might be?'

"He knew what to say to peak my interests, and I found myself there again. He didn't tell me which walls, of course, and so I took a sledgehammer to the entire place, until I found it. It was just an old cigar box, the contents of which you've already seen."

"What did he say after you found it?" asked Monica.

"Nothing. In fact, he didn't appear again for a full year and he refused to talk about it."

"How did you know it was me? By the photograph alone?"

"That made me suspicious. But Dana knew your birthday and it seemed to make it more plausible. I asked Skinner to check your records, to see if you were adopted, and – "

"Wait, Skinner knows too?"

"He's known for a while," Gibson said. "He knew when he met us at the embassy last year."

"Which means you knew too. Why didn't you say anything?"

Gibson shrugged. "Wasn't my place to tell you any more than it was Skinner's."

"And during the visits, the smoking man never said anything more?"

"Bastard's tight-lipped about this now."

Monica leaned back, her forehead creasing as she thought through everything. "This is all so wonderfully implausible. But what I really don't get is how we all ended up not only working for the FBI, but also working on the X-files at some point in our careers. The odds are incredible. I guess that's just how fate works sometimes, though."

"I do recall," said Mulder, "having a conversation with you when we first met about coincidences and patterns. In this case, I might have to agree with you. I get how he drew me in – I can only assume that he was the one who slipped the first X-file under my door. And he definitely forced Skinner's hand in assigning Jeffrey to the X-files. But you came in after he'd disappeared, and it was John who assigned you, no questions there."

A sound of exasperation came from the youngest member of their trio. "Really? You two don't see what happened? Who do you think brought John onto the X-files? He did. Why? Because of his connection to you, Mon. You were exactly what the X-files needed, and therefore no one would ever approve of your being assigned to the case. All he had to do was put John's name at the top of the list, which he probably did years before John was assigned, because he's just the type of person they always wanted to assign to the X-files, right? So he gets the position and suddenly, the guy you're in love with is working your dream job. And since you're actually more cut out for it than he is, it's only a matter of time before he calls you in to help, and when he sees that you are more equipped for the X-files, he has no choice but to either give you his position or bring you in as his partner in the case of an opening. Classic castling, you guys."

Mulder looked at Monica with bemusement. "You know, I've never heard him speak so much in all the years I've known him. You do this to him?"

"No, I think that really was a record." She put back a half-eaten slice of pizza, for she was no longer hungry and her mind was moving on to other topics. "So, where do we begin looking for records on Tiba Kee?"


	93. Chapter 93

They spent the next two days driving all over the state of New Mexico, visiting small records offices, hoping to find something. The few members of the Kee family that they were able to track down knew nothing about a Tiba Kee and did not recognize her photograph. It was on to Arizona for them.

Monica was starting to feel discouraged. They had so little to go on. Tiba hadn't been born on the reservation and they did not know her mother's name. They had virtually nothing to go on out here, yet despite her frustration, she still felt like they were looking in the right direction.

All the while they were conducting their so far fruitless search she was also getting a chance to know this man who was inexplicably her half-brother. She'd always liked Agent Mulder, and felt that not only could she trust him, but also that they were kindred souls in a world of naysayers and disbelievers.

Every night, she still called home, checking in with her father, husband, and daughter, letting them know that everyone was doing well She found it hard to be away from Vera, especially with William missing and Vera being the only one with any connection to him.

Although John had agreed to keep the dream journal going, Monica still asked her daughter about her dreams, and let Mulder listen in too. Something had changed in the days since she'd taken off on this trip – the dreams were brighter again, reminiscent of the days before. It was obvious, however, that he was still confined to the ship, but the dreams were revisiting familiar locales, especially the wide open plains of his family's home. She dissected them with her husband, a task he was still treating with resistance, despite his seeming knack for picking up on things she'd missed.

"Mulder and I were talking about lucid dreaming. It's where a person is aware of their consciousness while dreaming."

"I know what it is. Experience it myself during the Tippet case back in 2000."

"I remember. We think it might be a good idea to start training Vera. If we can get her to learn how to control her dreams, then we've got a chance to make contact with William."

"And then what, Mon? You think that ship he's on is like some cruise ship, with posted dockings, and that all he has to do is ask and they'll just let him off at the next stop, and then we'll be there ready to pick him up?"

"Maybe not, but any contact we can get will be beneficial. I'm hopeful too that if we can introduce consciousness during dreaming, she can move on to the next step, and establish this dream connection with him while she's awake."

There was silence on the other end. "John?" It took another few seconds and a loud sigh before he could answer.

"Fine, Mon. Whatever you want you to do." It was obvious to her that he was biting his tongue.

"I would be including you in this training too."

"You're far better equipped to train her at this than me."

"John, you've actually done it before, not me, as you just said."

"Everyone has these moments of thinking they're awake when they dream. What happened to me wasn't anything special. And if Agent Scully hadn't woken me up, I would have died. I had no control over what was going on."

He was resisting. Of course he was. What had she expected?

"We'll talk more about it when I return, ok? I just want to keep you aware of the plan."

"Again, Monica, whatever you think is best. I'm just along for the ride."

She wasn't going to push that any further and soon wished him a goodnight. Mulder was looking at her with a smirk on his lips.

"No offense to you or Doggett – he's a real honorable guy and a great investigator – but I never could see what you saw in him. You're like night and day. Like Elvis and Kenny G. Like –"

"Like Mulder and Scully, circa 1992?"

"Point taken. But Dana pushes me to better my own theories, like a very thorough multi-peer review board bound in a five foot two inch frame. All I see happening here is that you push him, he pushes back, and then you give up. That's not the Agent Reyes I remember from so many years ago."

She smiled at him like he was a sweet little puppy. "You can't judge my marriage based on a one-sided phone conversation. I would think that a better testament to our marriage would be the five years we've been married. Which, I must remind you, you've seen virtually none of. And if you think I backed down on that, you are greatly mistaken. John is sensitive about Vera and I have to walk him through it slowly, or else it becomes overwhelming and unbelievable to him. But I put the seed of the idea of lucid dreaming into his head, and by the time I get home, I guarantee you he will have looked it up online and possibly ordered a book or two on the subject, which he'll keep squirreled away until he feels comfortable with the idea. If I'm lucky, he will start working on techniques with her before my return."

"I suppose someone needs to manipulate him towards the obvious," said Mulder.

The next morning they made their way to a records office in northern Arizona. The town of Kayenta was small, just over five thousand residents, but Monica felt that it was bristling with some sort of energy. It looked little different from the other larger townships they had already visited. "This is the place," she told them. "I know we're going to find answers here."

The three of them walked into the office, which was manned only by an older woman. "You people are more FBI?" she asked, slowly getting up. Mulder and Monica exchanged looks, while Gibson stepped forward.

"Yes, we are," he said confidently. "But we're actually not here to discuss the murder right now. This agent here is doing a bit of genealogy. It seems that she has a Navajo grandmother, whose name is still unknown, and a mother whose name is known, but who wasn't born or raised on the reservation. You can see how this might make searching for family difficult."

After exchanging another look, this time to show how impressed they were with Gibson, Monica gave the woman what she knew and they sat to wait for her to search her records.

"What was that about a murder? Why is the FBI here?" asked Monica.

"I don't know too much, just what I picked up from her when we walked in. A body was found a couple days ago. Well, parts of a body. Scattered about. Supposedly found sticking out of prairie dog holes. She didn't know that for sure and is hoping we'll share some details with her."

"Prairie dog holes? Really? That sounds rather ridiculous. I wonder what really happened," said Monica.

"Not entirely unheard of," said Mulder. "There was a case back in '76 of a homeless man in St. Petersburg who was supposedly killed by squirrels. And I had an X-file from '94 about a young man in Eugene, Oregon who badly mauled body was found in a canal covered in nutria bites."

"Nutria?"

"Giant rodents."

"ROUSes?" asked Monica with a laugh.

"Hm?"

She waved it off. "Rodents of unusual size. It's from the Princess Bride. Only one of the best 80s movies ever. My friends and I saw it in the theatres a dozen times because we thought Wesley was cute."

"Well, regardless, if there's any basis to this claim, they could actually have their hands on an X-file."

"What's to say that someone didn't just kill the person and the rodents involved merely scavenged what was left behind?"

"Rodents, especially squirrels, nutria, and I'm guessing prairie dogs, are largely herbivores. Some rodents do eat insects, while the Australian water rat is known to eat animals such as frogs and birds. Nutria have been known to bite humans, but never severely. As far as the two cases I sited, the Russian man died in summer, so he didn't freeze to death, and there were no signs of foul play or physical ailments. However, this was Soviet Russia, and it happened 20 years before the Eugene case, so details were sketchy and not to be trusted. But the kid in Eugene had two medical examiners, one of whom was someone we both trust implicitly, who ruled that there were no conclusive signs of human intervention. The body was described as being severed not by a knife or cutting tool of any kind, but by rather large, crude teeth, possibly matching those of the nutria."

Monica gave him a look of incredulity. "Scully really thought that ROUSes killed the boy?"

Mulder scoffed. "Of course not. But she did postulate that all signs of what had killed the boy had been destroyed by the suddenly and inexplicably carnivorous behavior of the nutria. Which she could not explain as there were no reports of rabid nutria in the area, even following a massive hunt following the boy's death."

"Intriguing," said Monica, as the records woman returned carrying a file. She smiled and walked to the counter to meet her.

"Well, I've looked, but I haven't come up with much. We've got about four families in the region with that name, but no Tiba Kee listed in any of their records."

Monica's face fell. Still, she was certain she was in the right place, it would just be a matter of visiting each of the Kees in the area and talking to them.

The woman smiled. "Now, don't get sad just yet. I called the Blue Mother to see if she knew of anyone named Tiba Kee and she said to send you right over. You are in luck. Of course, the Blue Mother knows everyone. And she did give me a name – Haseya Kee. And there was a file on her."


	94. Chapter 94

The file was short, filled with basic information – when and where Haseya was born and died, which schools she'd attended, and some ancient addresses as well. There wasn't anything of use that Monica could see, but it felt reassuring to hold evidence of her biological grandmother's life. She hoped that she would find more answers at the home of the Blue Mother.

As they were leaving, a man entered with a teenage boy trailing behind him. The man looked every inch a tourist, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and sporting a somewhat ridiculous tan. "Ma'am," he said in a thickly accented voice, "this boy… er, my son… er, my stepson… no, I mean, he is the son of my ex-wife," he rubbed his bald pate and searched for words, "No, that is too long a story. I ask only this, he needs access to your water closet… er, your washroom, yes?" The man was far more frazzled than the tall, dark-haired youth that stood behind him looking somewhat embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," said the woman at the counter, putting on a displeased look, "we do not have restrooms for tourists. You can visit the McDonalds like everyone else."

"But you do not understand," he said, starting to sweat a little. "It is emergency. The boy, he must use your washroom, please."

The woman did not budge. "No," she said and then walked into the backroom.

The man suddenly seemed to realize that there were witnesses to this obvious mistreatment. "What is the world coming to? There are no common curtsies," he said.

Monica smiled at his malapropism, while Mulder took on a look of commiseration. "It is a travesty. I'm sure you'll have better luck at the Golden Arches."

The man narrowed his eyes. "Travesty, that is too much. And Golden Arches?" he asked before his eyes lit up, "This I have not hear before! Ha! Two arches," he said to the boy. "They make the M!"

"Can we go now?" asked the boy, with obvious discomfort in his voice, and with that they were gone.

Back in the car, Mulder pulled out his phone and hit a number on speed dial. "Who are you calling?" asked Monica as she started the car.

Mulder waved her off. "Hello, Skinman," he said with a coy smile on his face. "No, sir, no word on that yet. But I'm here with Monica. Seems we might have stumbled upon an X-file." He paused and nodded. "Well, actually, yes, I was hoping you could throw me a bone. … Yes, I do realize that I'm no longer with the Bureau. … You know, though, that I am the best person to assist them. I could stand to do a little consulting work, and you could stand to hire me. … But Walter…" Mulder sighed and handed the phone to Monica with a huff.

"Someone wants to speak to you."

"Sir?" she asked.

"Hello Monica," said Skinner, somewhat awkwardly and with a great deal of exasperation, "This is probably a futile request, but could you please keep him away from the crime scene? There's nothing there for him other than opportunities to expose himself unnecessarily."

"Expose himself?" she asked into the phone while giving Mulder an incredulous look followed by an uncontainable smile. Mulder mouthed the words "No way" and held his hand out, demanding the return of his phone.

"Mulder needs to remember that his ties to the FBI are now severed," continued Skinner. "If he gets involved, the top brass could choose to go after him for interfering with a criminal investigation."

Mulder tried to grab for his phone, but Monica slapped his hand away. "I thought the FBI was eternally grateful for his assistance on the Bannan case. Wouldn't they want him now?"

"Grateful, yes, but not eternally so. Just keep him away, ok?"

"I'll do what I can." She hung up and returned the phone to her half-brother.

"He wants you to keep me away from the crime scene, doesn't he?" asked Mulder before Monica could speak.

"He does. Which makes me think there's something going on here. What do you say we take a little detour on our way to the Blue Mother's home?"

"It's a plan. Gibson, you're our man on surveillance," instructed Mulder. "When we get close, figure out who's in charge and, more importantly, what they think is going on."

Gibson pointed them in the right direction, and they soon found themselves a few hundred yards away from a large cluster of navy FBI jackets milling around.

"They're not all FBI," said Gibson, staring at the crowd. "Some of them are something else…" He paused, waiting for one to explicitly think it. "Millennium. The Millennium Group. And I think that woman there has a foot in both camps." He pointed to a tall black woman, wearing a dark suit and talking to a small cadre of men. "Those are the Millennium people around her. They're not really FBI."

"The Millennium Group?" asked Mulder, with disbelief in his voice. "They supposedly disbanded and fell apart."

"I've heard of them," said Monica, staring intently at the small group. "They've been around for well over a thousand years, right? I can't imagine a group of such duration would just cease operations."

"Apparently not. What exactly do you know about them?"

"Religious group. Some would say cult. Overly concerned with end times. I remember hearing rumors that they were all wrapped up in the government. Also, there was a fundamental disagreement within the group, resulting in their split into two factions. I know nothing after the split. But really, most of what I heard sounded little different than the conspiracy theories and legends surrounding the Masons."

"I knew a former member," Mulder said. "We worked a case together. Zombies, if you can believe it. The group was trying to bring back dead members who were to ride as the four horsemen of the Apocalypse."

"I take it they were not successful?"

"A bullet to the head is just as effective as the myths would have you believe."

"So, what do you think the Millennium Group is doing out here?"

"That's what I'm going to find out," said Mulder. "You stay with Gibson. Out of sight. We don't need them figuring out who he is." He got out of the car and walked confidently towards the woman in charge.

She wondered in that moment, as she sat in the car, watching him stride off, what it would have been like growing up with Mulder as an older brother. Right now, she felt a twinge of jealousy, as though he were going off on an adventure and leaving her behind.

"You know you can go," said Gibson from the back seat. "I'm an adult. I'll sit in the driver's seat and if anything happens, I'll drive. But nothing will happen. No one will notice me. I promise."

"You're making me feel derelict in my duties."

"You need to stop thinking of me as your duty."

"I think of you as my son." _And I'll never stop wanting to protect you. You know that._

_I'll be fine. Stop worrying about me. Go._

She looked at his stubborn face with disbelief, and he smiled at her. "I guess I should be more careful with my thoughts," said Gibson.

"So that really just happened?" asked Monica.

"Only took you six years to get into my head."

She climbed out of her seat towards him, laughing, and pulled his head towards her, kissing him on the forehead. "This is incredible. I've got to go catch up to Mulder. Take the helm, Ensign Praise."

_You are so weird._

She laughed again, and jumped out of the car, running after Mulder.

Mulder was just beginning his spiel when she caught up with him. "Fox Mulder," he said with an innocent smile, holding out his hand professionally. "I just got off the phone with A.D. Skinner in D.C. about this case. Looks like you could use some help, and since I'm in the area..."

The woman looked him up and down, ignoring his outstretched hand, and then scrutinized Monica as well. "I'm sorry, but I don't know who you are, and I certainly didn't authorize outside assistance."

"I'm a former Agent, as is my colleague here, Monica Reyes. I've done some consulting for the F.B.I. since I left the Bureau. And I've got expertise that could be of use to you."

"What kind of expertise is that?"

"I worked on the X-files for 10 years, and Ms. Reyes was also assigned to them for a year."

"I'm sorry but I think that you are mistaking the nature of our work," said the woman. Any curiosity she might have displayed was now replaced by a cold professionalism. "There are no little green men here, no ghosts or vampires for you to stake, not even dead men returning to life." With that she strode off.

"Obviously a fan of my work," said Mulder with an undeterred and amused look.

"So, how do you suggest we proceed?"

"With Gibson, obviously. If we just stay close enough, we'll always know what they are thinking, and more importantly, what they are hiding."

Monica nodded and looked out towards the activity in the desert.

"You don't mind, do you?" asked Mulder. "I know we're here to look for clues about your mother, but it's hard for me to ignore what is going on here."

"No, I don't mind. I can't help but feel that this is far more than coincidence."

"How so?"

"I'm not sure yet, but I get the undeniable feeling that this murder is somehow connected to my mother."


	95. Chapter 95

The houses on the reservation all looked similar; tidy, cream white rectangular boxes, plain and dull, one after another, though the plots of land upon which they stood were sizeable. They parked in front of one such house and an older woman on the porch waved.

"I was expecting you," said the woman. Her grey hair was pulled back into a bun, and a few wispy bangs brushed against her forehead. She wore glasses and was decked out in several pieces of turquoise jewelry, which sat stunningly against the simple black blouse and dark skirt she wore.

Monica looked at her incredulously. "Were you expecting us before or after the woman at the office called?" she asked, fully expecting the woman to say before.

Instead, the Blue Mother laughed. "Dear, if I had a dollar for every white person with Navajo blood who came to me looking to explore some sort of mythical, spirit-filled heritage, well, I would be a very wealthy lady."

"That's not exactly why I came, though."

"Ah yes, the murder. Dina said you were FBI."

"I didn't come about that either. I just came to learn more about my mother."

"Mmm," the Blue Mother said contemplatively. "Well, then we best get inside to start going over that story."

Inside her home was the bustling of several generations. Monica, Mulder, and Gibson followed her through the living room, where several teenage girls lounged about on a couple of couches, watching a small box TV and conversing excitedly. She led them into the kitchen where an older woman stood at the stove stirring something that made Monica's mouth water, while two middle-aged men sat drinking beers at a Formica dining table. All the while, small children flowed in and out of the rooms like waves, occasionally escaping or entering through the open back door of the kitchen.

The Blue Mother shooed the men away and invited her three guests to sit at the table, which reminded Monica of the table in the very first apartment she'd shared with John.

"So, you are the daughter of Tiba Kee, who was the daughter of Haseya Kee. This much you know."

Monica nodded.

"Dina does not know this, but Haseya and I were childhood friends. We were close in age and lived near each other. We played together and we grew up together. Then one day, when we were teenagers, the white men came, and she left with them. You must understand that the Rez has always been economically depressed, and back then, in the 1940s, during the war, things were even harder than they appear to be now. Haseya thought the men to be very exciting and dashing, and one of them promised her a wonderful life in California, with all the modern luxuries we saw in advertisements, and so she followed him. They were married soon after, and a year later, she had your mother, Tiba. Though being the daughter of a white man, she was given a different name…"

"Anne Henson."

"Yes. Sadly, I never knew Anne as a child, though Haseya would send me letters. At first, they were happy letters, but eventually I began to see that Haseya was unhappy. Her husband, Richard, was much older than she was, in his 40s, and his job, which he would not explain to her, required him to be away for weeks at a time, without warning. Haseya was often alone, and being Navajo did not help her make friends in suburban California. But she stayed for her daughter. Richard was very wealthy, and just as he had promised her, she wanted for nothing. Anne too was given every advantage a young girl could dream of, perhaps even more advantages than a normal girl. She was bright, Haseya told me. I remember it very well, one letter she sent. She said that Anne had scored so high on a mathematics exam that the school was bringing in a special tutor to teach her calculus. The child was only 11 or 12 at the time. If I recall correctly, she graduated high school at 15 and had a Ph.D. in physics by the time she was 21. We were all very proud, to hear of a half-Navajo girl excelling so."

The woman at the stove gave a laugh. "It's true," she said to them. "Mother would not stop talking about it, and giving us grief. I could barely get through algebra. We all turned out to be disappointments."

"Not at all, Doli. Your path was to marry and give me many grandchildren, which you succeeded at."

"You said you never met Anne as a child. Did you ever meet her as an adult?" Monica asked the Blue Mother.

The woman shifted in her seat. "Doli, the soup, is it ready?"

"It's still got another few hours of simmering to go."

"We will take care of it. I need to speak to these people in private. Would it be possible for you and the girls to go next door? Take yours sons as well." In a few minutes they were alone, and Gibson and Mulder were given the task of stirring the soup.

"In 1968, Haseya sent your mother to me. The young woman had gotten herself into serious trouble. She was pregnant, with you, but that was not the trouble. The trouble was the father. Tiba had so much potential and had come so far. Her intelligence had taken her to the highest levels of the government, and it was in those circles that she met your father. She shared her mother's romanticism and was swept off her feet by a young man who held power and prowess. He promised her many things, but unlike Richard's promises to Haseya, the man never intended to fulfill them. He won her, and he took her into his bed, and only after she became pregnant did she learn that he was married and had a child. She was nothing to him.

"The pregnancy was a threat to her career, and for reasons she did not understand, he found it a threat too. He insisted that you be given up for adoption, and your mother could not bear the thought. She begged to be allowed to keep you, to return to her mother. She promised she would never reveal him as the father. She even went so far as to swear she was leaving her profession. But he would have none of it. He wanted you gone. There were fights, bad ones. Haseya feared for her daughter's life.

"She was brought to me a month before you were born, seeking safety, on a day very much like yesterday. And for a few weeks, she had it. She was known by the name her mother had given her – Tiba. She was quiet and sad. She wanted you very much, but it was becoming obvious to her that this it would not be easy to keep you. Finally, she admitted to me that the man who had fathered the child was very powerful and had connections that made hiding very difficult. Sure enough, he came to my home one night. He held a gun to your mother and gave her a choice – either she and the child would die right there on my doorstep and he would walk away without giving it another thought, or she would come with him. He told her the second option would ensure the child's life would be saved. What he did not say, but which we both knew, was that her own life would be lost regardless of her decision."

The Blue Mother wiped a tear from her eye. "I have never seen anyone so brave as your mother. She agreed to go with him, begging him to give the child to me or her mother, but he did not speak. She told me she would be ok, and that I was to tell her mother and the child that she loved them very much. He dragged her to his car and then they were both gone. I never saw her again, and Haseya never heard from her. You, the child, were lost as well.

"Richard was an old man by then, retired, as it were. Haseya blamed him for not helping, for not protecting their daughter. She left him soon after and returned to the reservation, hoping that one day her daughter would return to the last place she'd been seen. But fear and worry and stress ate at her, and I think it turned into the cancer that devoured her alive. She died here, in 1977. I was with her, holding her hand."

At this, the Blue Mother reached out and took Monica's hands in her own, cold hands. "Part of me has been sitting here for the last 40 years, waiting for Tiba to return. I never dreamed that it would be you who came to my door."

There were tears running down Monica's cheeks and she squeezed the Blue Mother's hands. "Thank you, for all that you have done. And for sharing all of this with me."

"Of course. Not only do you deserve to know, but your mother and grandmother would have wanted me to tell you. If you like, I can have my son Gus take you out to see Haseya's grave. I think you might find it interesting."

It was then that Mulder spoke up. "You said something a minute ago about Tiba showing up on a day like yesterday. Are you referring to the murder?"

"You are a smart one. I would tell you more, but I am an old woman and I need my rest. If you go three houses over, you will find my son Gus. He can take you to the cemetery. Perhaps we can talk again this evening. The soup should be ready by them. You are more than welcome to join us for dinner."


	96. Chapter 96

Gus was a kind man, welcoming of the strange task his mother had given him. "Yeah, I have taken my mother to Haseya's grave many times. She has always been good about remembering the dead. We don't just visit Haseya's grave either. And she always puts me to work, clearing the graves of withered flowers, placing new flowers on forgotten graves, and making sure things are upright and free of weeds." He hadn't known Haseya well, because her arrival had coincided with his marriage, he explained, and his new family had taken up all of his time. But he had gone to her funeral.

"There were white men there. Her husband was dead, but I think his friends or coworkers might have come too. We'd all thought her husband had agreed to the separation or wanted it or something, so we were surprised to see them. They paid for her tombstone too. No one knew, but suddenly one day, my mother and I showed up, and this was here."

He pointed to a granite headstone, one of the more expensive ones in the stretch of brown dirt that stood before them. They walked over and read the inscription. It was simple, with her name and dates, but there was something carved on the bottom beneath the writing.

"An ouroboros," said Monica. "Doesn't the Millennium Group use that as their symbol?"

Mulder nodded.

"Is it meant as a warning or as protection?"

"I think it means she was one of them. I don't believe they wouldn't put it on the grave of an outsider. But I know little enough about the group. Could be I'm wrong."

Monica knelt beside the grave and traced the ouroboros with her finger. "I think there is a lot more than the Blue Mother is telling us."

Gibson agreed. "But there's a lot that she doesn't understand either."

Monica wanted to ask him what he'd gleaned from the old woman, but Gus was standing with them, and they could not give Gibson's secret away. She asked instead for a few moments alone at the gravesite, and when she rejoined them, they decided to find a motel for the night.

After some searching, they settled into the motel where the Millennium Group was staying, ensuring that Gibson would be able to spy on them. However, it did not seem that the investigation had ended for the evening, and as it was time to join the Blue Mother again, they left without any new answers.

They arrived to find several tables set up in the backyard, and far more food than just the pot of soup. The Blue Mother had assembled most of her family for the night as a welcome home party for the granddaughter of her childhood friend. There was feasting and celebrating. Monica could barely believe the reception she got.

Towards the end of the night, the Blue Mother pulled her into a bedroom to speak to her alone. "You can tell your friends this later, but I wanted to be alone with you for a moment, Yanaha Kee," she said, using part of Monica's birth name.

"How did you know that was the name I was given?"

"How did you know?" asked the Blue Mother, looking equally surprised.

"I found my birth certificate."

The old woman smiled. "I am pleased that Tiba was successful in making that official. She had told me before you were born that were you a girl, she would name you Yanaha. She was so sure you would be a girl that she did not have a boy's name picked out. Do you know what it means?" Monica shook her head. "It means 'brave.' She wanted you to be brave, because even before your birth, life was proving to be very scary. She had asked me for help in finding a name that meant braveness, because she had been so removed from her culture, she did not know where to begin. She wanted you to have a Navajo name to make it easier for you to grow up here, should the father agree to let us raise you."

"Do you know why Haseya has a picture of a snake eating its own tail on her tombstone?"

The woman shook her head. "I do not, but I imagine you might have a better idea. I know only that it was the symbol used by Richard's group. And by the people who are out here right now, looking at that murder."

"What do you know about the murder?"

"Of the new one, very little of actual details. Of the old one, far more."

"You said my mother came to you on a day very like today. What happened that day?"

"A man was murdered. His body was severed into many pieces. Another man, the man who brought your mother to me, told me that they had arrived the previous day, but it hadn't been safe. He implied that the man who had died had tried to kill or take Tiba. The man who brought her, he was a Russian, I believe. He assured us it was safe, though, and no one else would come. And he was right, until your father showed up."

"Who was the Russian man?"

"I had thought, at first, that he was someone Haseya knew, but at her funeral, I saw him again. He stood with the men who worked for Richard's organization."

"So you think that Richard had actually worked to protect my mother?"

"Yes, I believe he did. He and Haseya had never talked about what had happened to Tiba, not exactly. Not the pregnancy, and very little about the disappearance."

"So, in late 1968, a member of the Millennium Group accompanied my mother here, but a man tried to kill her, and instead he was killed. His body was disposed of in a similar way to the body that was found yesterday, just before my arrival. Was the murder yesterday connected to me?"

"Do you have enemies who would want to kill you?"

Monica gave a laugh. "Less than before, I hope. But no one that I know of who is actively out for me."

The old woman did not understand why this would be funny, so Monica continued. "What brought the Millennium Group out before, when Haseya and you were young women?"

"I am not sure. They would not share with me, of course, and Haseya did not know either. But it was not another murder, if that is what you are asking." 

There was something about the way she spoke that made Monica suspect she was hiding something. The Blue Mother's face was set though, and she was not going to share what she did know. All Monica could do was hope that Gibson was paying attention.

Back at the hotel, she asked Gibson what the woman had been thinking, as he'd been carefully instructed to listen in. "She was very honest with you. But she knew a little bit more about why the Millennium Group was out here back in the 40s. They were investigating a sacred place. But the Navajo do not share their sacred places with anyone who is not Navajo. That is the only reason she did not explain it to you. She wants to, but I think it would take you moving here permanently before you could be allowed access to those kinds of secrets."

"But you know," she said, pushing him to reveal more.

He hung back a little, not so eager to share. "It's really important to them, Monica."

"It's really important to me too."

"You remember this morning at the crime scene when you heard my thoughts?"

It was Mulder's turn to interject. "You can read his mind? Why didn't you tell me?"

"No, it was just then. I've been with him for seven years and that was definitely a first. Before, I thought maybe here and there I could sense what he was thinking, but this morning it was loud and clear. Startling too."

"And since this morning?"

"Nothing."

He turned to Gibson. "What is special about this sacred place?"

The young man bit his lip and turned to Monica. "The Blue Mother called it something in her own language, but I don't know what it means. The name has transcended the meaning… she didn't think about what it meant, just about what it was called. But she did think about what happens there, and why the Millennium Group and other outsiders have been coming here for a century. And I know what the Millennium Group calls it – The Echoes.

"People come here to see if they have… gifts, I guess. There's something special about the place where the man was murdered. Like, it amplifies things. Certain people can read the minds of those around them, sometimes, if they are attuned to it."

Monica lit up at that, while Mulder inwardly pouted. "I think we should go back there in the morning and give it another try," he said. "Hopefully they will have moved the investigation back into the office and we'll actually be able to spend some time there." Only Gibson knew that Mulder wanted to see if he too would be affected.

By the time the Millennium Group returned, it was late and they were all ready for bed. Gibson told them what they knew, but it was still little – they suspected the man had indeed been killed by prairie dogs of all things, and his body had in fact been dissected into smaller pieces, though the largest ones had been unable to fit in the prairie dog holes and were left conspicuously sticking out of the ground. They had been fighting with the Navajo Nation all day for the right to bring in a backhoe and retrieve the remaining body parts, but being a sacred place, they were quickly denied the request and were instead surrounded by the Navajo police force to ensure they did not attempt any excavation on their own,

"The man was one of their own, but they don't know what he was doing out here. They value the location too, but they see no reason why he would come here on his own, or why being here would lead to his demise, or more to the point, why normally tame prairie dogs would become killers."


	97. Chapter 97

Monica awoke early the next morning. Listening at the door that divided her room from Gibson and Mulder's, she heard nothing, though she suspected Mulder must be awake, since he had mentioned early on during their trip that he was a poor sleeper and given to insomnia, though she doubted the mystery of her birth mother's whereabouts or the prairie dogs were enough to keep him up all night. She decided to leave them be, regardless, and go out for an early morning walk in this town where her grandmother had been born and raised, and where she had spent her final years.

As she walked through the empty streets, the early morning sky shades of softened blue and yellow, she imagined what her ancestors were like, wondering how many generations of her family had lived in this very spot. She wondered too what her life might have been like growing up here. Her life would no doubt have been very different, but she felt that was the very reason why the events of her infancy had occurred the way they had. She was put on the path she was meant to take, though it saddened her to think of how much suffering and strife it had caused her birth family.

She wanted to feel an intense connection to the land, and while the beauty of the distant mountains was not lost on her, she did not feel that this was home, not in the way that Mexico pulled at her. Somewhat disheartened and in need of some caffeine, she returned to the motel, where a continental breakfast had been set up. Filling a chipped green mug with "fresh" coffee and grabbing a dense, cold croissant, she settled into a vinyl chair and started reading a copy of that week's Navajo Times. The coffee was bitter and sludge-like, and left her feeling like she was sucking on a piece of charcoal.

A man came up to her table and placed a handful of sugar and cream packets next to her mug. "Here, an addition of these items will help," he said.

She looked up to find the same bald man they had encountered in the records office. He smiled jovially at her. "The coffee, it is not very good. I am from Russia. Tea is national specialty. But even coffee at the least appealing restaurant is better than coffee at American motel. I recommend a holiday to Seattle. They consider coffee as we Russians consider tea."

Monica gave a friendly laugh. "I'm not sure that it's necessary since Starbucks has taken over the world."

"Ah, but Seattle has hundred different coffee companies, I think. My son, he and I visited Seattle before we come to here. I recommend highly that city."

"Thank you for the recommendation, but I'm afraid Seattle is not in my travel plans at the moment. Perhaps one day. And thank you for the sugar and creamer," she said, returning to the task of ameliorating her coffee. The man did not take her words as a reason to end their conversation. Instead, he took a seat opposite her.

"What reason has brought you here? Victor and I traveled here to see the medicinal sand paintings. They are uniquely interesting," he said, unsolicited, and then pulled out a folded up pamphlet from his pocket. He pointed with a heavy finger to a drawing. "You see here, the sand, it is made into different colors and is then arranged into patterns. A person in need of curing, he must sit on the sand painting. It removes from him the impurities that afflict him. After the ceremony, the painting is destroyed. They are all unique. And you see here, each color is representing of a direction: white is east, blue is south, yellow is west, and black is north. It is interesting that black is north, do you agree? Black is typically thought of as a very negative color. In the western world, it is associated with death. In my own Russia, with aging and the distance that exists between the elderly and the remainder of the world. Peculiar. But here, in Navajo land, black has a meaning of north, and north has a meaning of ceremonial knowledge. Black represent north and north represents knowledge. Very interesting, don't you think?"

Monica nodded, and then narrowed her eyes. It seemed more than a little odd that he was sharing so much. She wondered first if he was lonely or if he was a little off, but then it finally clicked that he was Russian. She scrutinized him, attempting to estimate his age. Would fate have put the Russian who had helped her birth mother into her path now, in the very location where Tiba had last been seen?

"Have you ever been here before?" she asked, changing her tone from casual to investigatory.

"Ah, interesting question. I might ask of you the same."

"I have been here only once before, in a sense. It was before I was born. I never knew my mother, but she was half-Navajo and attempted to have me here. But life did not work out that way."

"Great pity. Yes, I too have been here. But it was also many years ago. Perhaps we were here at the same time, that is how many years ago it was."

Her senses were heightened and she felt exhilarated. This was too good to be true. "Did you come looking for me?"

"For you? Ah, but I do not know who you are. It would be rather odd for anyone to go in search of someone they do not know."

"Perhaps you knew my mother. She was known both as Anne Henson and Tiba Kee."

The Russian man shook his head. "My dear, I am not sure what has made you think that I know your mother. I do swear that I do not know who you are. I was only speaking in jest when I said I was perhaps here at the same time as you."

"I don't believe you were speaking in jest. I believe you know very well who I am and I believe that your being here now is no coincidence."

"That is where you are wrong," said the man, still smiling.

"When did you arrive here?" asked Monica.

"Two days ago."

"Did you know that there was a murder two days ago?"

The man's smile dropped. "You are accusing me of murder now? You do not even know who I am."

"I believe, regardless of whether it was fate or coincidence or intention, that our paths have crossed for a reason. I believe that you know a great deal about the murder and a great deal about my mother. And I believe that you were here 40 years ago, trying to help my birth mother escape from my birth father." Her words were intense, though she spoke quietly.

"Timofey?" The teenage boy who had been with him in the records office had come up to them. "Are you ready to go?"

The Russia stood up. "I must take my leave. But I do highly encourage you to visit Seattle. I wish you the best in finding the answers that you seek."

Monica rose from the table. "You can't leave. I need to know who you are. I need to know what happened to my mother."

"I am certain you will find your answers. But I must take my son. He wishes to see an early morning ceremony and I cannot delay him."

Monica reached out for him as he walked away, but he shook off her hand. "I have no answers for you, beyond what I already gave you."

He and the boy were soon gone. Monica needed to know what he knew, though, and raced off to Gibson's room. By the time he answered the door, his hair tousled and his eyes heavy with sleepiness, the Russian's car had already taken off down the highway.

Gibson shook his head. "He's too far away, Monica. I'm sorry." 

She declared that they would have to go track him down. While Gibson showered, she told Mulder of her strange interaction with the man, leaving out nothing. "We should find out where the sand painting ceremony is today. If we leave soon, we can probably make it by the end."

Mulder shook his head. "I don't think that is where he is going. And I don't think it would help. I think he was giving you a message. We're going north, to Seattle. That former member of the Millennium Group that I told you about? His name is Black, Frank Black. The knowledge you seek is apparently in his hands."


	98. Chapter 98

"Where's the pamphlet he gave you?" asked Mulder.

Monica jumped up. "On the table back in the lobby. I'll go get it."

She returned, hands shaking. "There's an address in here, a Seattle address."

"That's where we go next, then."

Two days later, they were making their way through the numbered streets of a Seattle neighborhood, looking for the house number in the pamphlet. "It's this one," said Gibson, pointing to a plot of land that seemed to contain nothing more than thick bushes and tall trees. "They already know we're coming." Underneath a tangle of ivy, they located the fence and entered into a front yard darkened by the tall trees surrounding it.

The house was two stories tall, but small. Its blue paint was dull and chipped, peeling away to reveal grey wood beneath. Mulder rang the bell and they waited.

Gibson knew that Frank Black did not want to see them, but that he knew he had no choice. He sat at his desk, his hands on his knees, his head bent down, hoping that his visitors would leave but knowing they wouldn't.

Finally, he opened the door. Black looked as though he'd aged another twenty years since Mulder had last seen him. His hair was still white, though the crevices in his cheeks had deepened, and his face and hands were now spotted with age. Mulder could tell that despite getting Jordan back eight years earlier, life had continued to be a struggle. Monica, even though she did not know the man, felt a chill pass through her, and when she shook the man's hand, she knew suddenly that he would not only help with this current case, but that he would play an even larger role in their lives.

"Agent Mulder, correct? It's been a long time. I hope you are not still out chasing zombies," said Frank, his lighthearted words not supported by even a hint of a smile or a chipper tone.

"No sir, not today. And you can just call me Mulder now. The Bureau and I parted ways years ago. We are here, however, on something related to the Millennium Group. This is Joshua Green," he said, using the alias that was on Gibson's fake papers, "and Monica Reyes. Monica has been looking for her birth mother and in doing so, we seemed to have stumbled upon a Millennium connection. Do you mind if we come in and talk to you?"

Frank hesitated again, instead sizing them up and before speaking.

"You see things," he began, looking at Gibson. "More than that. You're a mind reader. You're in my mind right now. I'd appreciate it if you would stay out of my mind."

Gibson nodded. He was far more interested in the girl upstairs anyway and quickly switched back to that, though whenever he did, he saw only flashes of terrible things that made him retreat almost immediately each time. The old man stared at him. "Stay out of her mind too. She's none of your concern."

"He is only concerned with our safety," said Monica, sticking up for him.

Black led them inside, reluctantly, and directed them to the living room. There, Gibson was drawn immediately to the photos spread throughout. The childhood pictures of his daughter Jordan showed a bright happy girl, who obviously loved her parents and her dogs. But as she progressed in age, her smile fell and her eyes stopped shining. Gibson wondered what had happened but when he ventured back into her head, there was more chaos and darkness blocking her true self, so he gave up again.

She came downstairs, however, soon after, as Monica was explaining the few facts they knew. A smile danced upon Jordan's face, and her eyes lit up with curiosity and excitement. Gibson got the sense that they did not often have visitors. Also, he was struck by how beautiful she was – far more beautiful than her pictures. He was spellbound.

Frank got up immediately and met her on the stairs. "How are you feeling, sweetheart?" he asked, kissing her forehead.

"I'm fine, Daddy. I told you we would have visitors today!" she said, beaming.

"Yes, you were right. This is Fox Mulder. Do you remember him? He brought you to visit me when I was in the hospital on New Year's Eve."

"You've grown up a little," said Mulder, smiling politely.

"Not much," she laughed. And it was true. She was a tiny thing, especially beside her father, for she stood only five foot two inches tall.

"This is Monica Reyes," said Frank.

Monica held out her hand and a smile, as usual, but the girl shook her head and flinched back.

"I'm sorry," Monica started to say.

"No, it's all right. Jordan doesn't touch people. It's a long story. But it's not you at all."

"It's really not that long," said Jordan, "and I can tell that you three would all understand, in your own ways. I can sense things from people, at all times, but if I touch them, then it sometimes all floods over me at once and I can lose myself in it."

Gibson, in his curiosity, was already slipping into her mind again, and Jordan stumbled a little, to be quickly caught by her father. Gibson immediately stopped.

"Like that," Jordan explained, no longer smiling. "Whatever you did there, that was as strong as if you'd touched me. What did you do?"

Gibson furrowed his brow. "I just tried to read your mind. Only for a second. I'm sorry. I was trying to figure out what you meant by that."

She rubbed her head and nodded at her father who released his hold of her. "Next time, just ask," she said, and Gibson felt his heart crumble into a thousand pieces. Minutes after meeting the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen in his life, he'd already hurt her and pissed her off.

"I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

"Jordan, you should rest. We can go back to the living room," said Frank, and the group headed over, though one member held back.

"Gibson," said Jordan just soft enough that no one else could hear her.

He turned around and stared. "How did you know my name? Is that because I was in your mind for a second?"

"More than a second, and more than once. But no, I knew before you came. Just about you. I had dreams. Nothing clear, but enough to know that you were coming here and that you had a gift." Miraculously, she smiled again, a shy smile that promised trust and forgiveness. "I've never known anyone who could read minds like that."

Gibson nodded dumbly and struggled to find words to say.

"If you come back tomorrow, perhaps we could go for a walk while they talk about things? Daddy never lets me go out alone because of my visions, but maybe if you're there, he'll be ok."

"Ok," he said, dumbfounded.

"I want to know more about it, the mind reading thing. But I need to lie down for a while. Your poking around in my brain is exhausting. Goodbye, Gibson," she said, still smiling. He nodded again, managed to voice a simple "bye" in return, and then headed straight to the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror and realized that he had no shot in hell with that girl. She was gorgeous, with big eyes, a long nose, a tiny chin, and the most kissable lips imaginable. Her hair was black, possibly dyed, and piled up on her head in a messy bun. What was he? Ugly, as always. Some people grow into their looks, some grow out, and he was definitely in the latter category. Barrel chested, slightly overweight, something generally off about his face, thin lips on a small mouth, his hair starting to thin, even though he was only twenty-one. And god, how old was she? Fifteen? Sixteen? Much too young and too pretty for him to even let himself think of her further.

Returning to the living room, he found the three in conversation.

"I know that woman," said Frank, referring to the African-American agent they had seen in the desert who was working for both the FBI and the Millennium Group. "We worked several cases together. She was a good woman, but eventually the group got to her. They offered her something she could not refuse, and she gave them one of their strongest connections to the FBI at the time. They say that they've disbanded, though a group that is nearly 2000 years old does not just disband."

They talked for anther half hour, but there was little that Black could tell them off the cuff. He promised to look into their queries and they agreed to meet the next day.


	99. Chapter 99

"What do you truly hope to get out of this?" asked Mulder as they drove back to Frank Black's house the next morning.

"I just want answers. I want to know what my role is in the coming invasion. I feel like there are answers here that are important, that if I keep digging, I will find something useful. My birth mother was a physicist, and I can't help but wonder what she was working on that would have crossed her path with Spender's. What did she know? What was he trying to prevent her from sharing? Why did he kill her? If I can find out what she knew, then maybe I can use it to stop what is going to happen."

"It might be a longshot. And how could something discovered 40 years ago help today? We know about the vaccine now, we know about the plans for invasion… we know a lot more now than what was available 40 years ago. I'm just not sure this will yield much." He looked at her for a second as he drove, trying to gage her reaction. "But Monica, if this is about something else too, that's ok. I just feel like if I know what your intentions are, then I can help you better."

"You mean like if I just simply want to know who she was? And to confirm that she was killed?" Mulder nodded. "Of course I want that too. There's a great deal of curiosity. But at the same time, it doesn't really change much. My father is Esteban Reyes; my mother was Alejandra Reyes. My birth parents are not my real parents."

Jordan met them at the door, smiling. Her hair was bright red today, not a natural shade of red, but something closer to burgundy. Gibson felt his stomach flip. "Come on in," she said. "Daddy's waiting for you in the living room."

They settled down in front of a sullen Frank Black, who had set out a pile of manila folders on his coffee table. Jordan brought in a tray of pastries, coffee, and tea, and set it out while smiling.

"Thank you so much," said Monica graciously.

"It was all Jordan's doing. I'm not the most conscientious host. But she insisted we pick up pastries from the local bakery for our guests." His serious face shifted into a smile and he took her hand lovingly. She meant the world to him.

They settled in and he started sharing what he'd learned, but he started at the beginning, by discussion the roots of the Millennium Group. Jordan already knew it all, and was keeping an eye on Gibson throughout the history lesson. When her father paused in his tale, she spoke up.

"Daddy, do you think it would be alright if Gibson and I go for a walk while you talk? This stuff doesn't really concern us, and it's a pretty day."

"I'm not sure, Jordan. What if something happens to you?"

"I'll be fine. And Gibson will be there."

Neither Frank nor Monica looked keen on the idea. Monica spoke first. "I'm not so sure that it's a good idea. Gibson, you're supposed to be staying on the down low. I don't feel comfortable knowing that you are wondering around a new location without me. We don't need a repeat of Seybaplaya." Gibson knew, however, that the real reason she wanted him to stay was to have someone verifying what Frank was telling them and to make sure he wasn't holding any information back. It was the pointed request she was mentally making underneath the words she spoke.

Gibson was not in the mood for such a job, not when a pretty girl had just asked if they could go out for a walk together. He was pretty sure at this point he would shirk every duty imaginable and follow her to the ends of the earth. "Mon, it'll be ok. You don't need me for this. Mr. Black is an honest man and he wants to help. You can trust him." He was lying, of course, for though Frank was indeed an honest man who wanted to help, he was also reluctant to share all he knew.

Frank, meanwhile, cared less about the mind reader being in his house, and more about his daughter being in the outside world with the mind reader, rather than with him. "I don't think it's safe. Something could happen."

"Seriously, I'll be fine. Gibson will be there. And I have my cell phone." She smiled at her father and turned her attention to Gibson. "If anything happens, just call my father. He'll come and get us."

Monica turned to Frank with concern. "What are you afraid will happen?" She suddenly feared that someone from the Millennium Group might not take too kindly to their search.

But Frank was not going to tell, and it was left to Jordan to explain. "Sometimes when I see things, I am no longer myself. I get lost, I guess. When I was a kid, I wandered out a few times without knowing what I was doing. They labeled it sleepwalking then, but Daddy knew it was more than that. When I was 13, though, everything got so much worse. The visions became stronger and the compulsion to respond to them intensified too. I… I don't get out much anymore. I had to stop going to school because I would miss so much of the lessons. My friends started to ask what was wrong with me. People started to tease me." Any trace of a smile was gone now. She'd told no one of this before, and now there were three people in her house whom she knew could be trusted.

"I was in an accident one night a couple years ago when I was 16. I left the house. I don't remember it. Luckily, I didn't get too far. Unluckily, that's because a car hit me. Not too bad. I broke my leg and apparently had a concussion. After that, Daddy put bars on my windows and an alarm on my door. So, he worries for a reason. But Daddy, I promise you, Gibson will be the alarm. Just have your talk. I need to stretch my legs, it's a beautiful day, and Gibson should see a little of Seattle before he leaves."

After all that, Frank had little he could say, so he let them leave.

"I never thought we'd get out of there," she said as soon as they were a few houses away. "I think this is the first time I've been out of the house without my father since the accident. A girl needs her freedom."

"Are you planning on ditching me then?" asked Gibson, automatically assuming the worst.

She laughed at him in the most confusing way. "No, silly. I just wanted to talk to you more, like I said. I want to know more about you."

"Why me?"

Jordan stopped and knelt beside the raised vegetable bed of a neighbor, gently touching a green leaf. "Your gift… have you ever just known that something would happen? Like, without a doubt?"

"Yeah, but mostly I can just read what people are thinking. The premonition stuff is not so often and not usually very clear."

"What kind of stuff do you see?"

"It's just flashes, I guess. Hard to describe." He wondered what was so fascinating about the leaf she was examining and wondered how stupid he'd look trying to kneel down beside her with his less-than-obedient body.

She turned and looked up at him. "I see so much death and destruction. I see the end of the world sometimes. Well, flashes, like you said. And it's not always the same. I guess it's not written in stone, you know. But I see it, and it doesn't vary all that much. And when I'm near someone whose situation is particularly pressing for some reason, I can sense that. And when I touch someone, well, then I get to see everything. I miss human touch. I mean, human touch without the side effects. It's not so bad when my dad hugs me; maybe because I've seen it all and know it all, maybe just because we're flesh and blood. But new people, well, that's exhausting."

_Great_, thought Gibson. _I've find out that the most beautiful girl I've ever seen is 18, but that she can't be touched anyway. Not that she would ever want to be touched by someone like me._

She stood up and dusted off her knees. For a long time she looked at him, searching his face, and he had to fight with everything in him to stop from reading her mind. "I'm sorry," he finally said. "It must suck. I can't really imagine." It was his turn to look away now. "I mean, it's not like people are clamoring to touch me, but at least when it does happen, it's not bad like that."

"Come on," she said. "Let's keep walking. What do you smell?"

He gave her a puzzled look but inhaled deeply. "Um, plants? Flowers? Dirt?"

"No, beyond that."

"Um… it smells kind of like the ocean, I guess."

She beamed at him. "We're only about 15 minutes from the beach. Want to go?" She was clearly not going to take no for an answer and he set off with her.

Back at the house, Frank continued on with his tale. "Recently, within the last decade, I mean, there was a split in the Millennium Group. There are two factions now. The Owls believe the apocalypse will come about because of a collision of neutron stars 6 billion light years away. They predict that the effects of this collision will hit the earth in a matter less than 30 years. On the other side are the Roosters. They take a more religious view of the coming apocalypse, one that most people are slightly more knowledgeable about.

"Though the split occurred recently, it was not due to anything new. This was a schism that had been affecting the group since the birth of modern science, and possibly back to the days of Copernicus and Galileo. But looking into the name of your grandfather – Richard Henson – I found something interesting. Without having access to the Group any longer, there was only so much digging I could do. But I think I can explain why there was an ouroboros on your grandmother's grave and why your grandparent's marriage fell apart.

"In 1948, Haseya, who was known as Hattie, was inducted into the Group. I cannot explain why or how, but it looks like Richard didn't just marry her because she was a pretty face. She might have had some sort of skill or gift that the Group desired. He might have married her to bring her in closer, or he might have simply sought her out because of who she was. However, Richard Henson gravitated more towards the scientific explanations of the universe, while Hattie sought out the religious. It would seem that this is what ultimately destroyed the marriage."

"How do you know all this?" asked Monica. "If you are no longer involved with the Millennium Group, how did you get access to such information?"

"Your mystery Russian. He did indeed come visit me some months ago. I met him from time to time when I was involved with the Group, but I never truly worked with him or came to know him. And then suddenly, he showed up at my door, with the boy you mentioned in tow, and he bequeathed to me a rather large box of files. Not wanting any involvement, I put them in the basement and swore to never look at them. But then you showed up. These files contain everything that I told you, and more."

"What else did they contain?" asked Mulder. "I wouldn't mind looking at them."

"There are files on dozens of Millennium Group members. I don't know where he got them, or why he gave them to me. He said that I was one of the few true members, even if I had never been inducted and wanted nothing to do with them. And without thoroughly examining them first, I am reluctant to let anyone look at them. I'm sorry."

After winding through the neighborhood for some time, Gibson and Jordan reached a set of stairs leading down through tall pine trees. "I don't see anything," he said.

"Oh, we've still got 272 steps to go. I hope you don't mind. Anyway, getting to the beach is the easy part. It's the return trip that's a bitch." He believed her as they made their way down set after set of staircases, which twisted through the forest that separated her neighborhood from the ocean.

It was not a spectacular sight to a young man who had just spent the last seven years of his life traveling all over Mexico. But the sun was shining, the sky was blue, and there were mountains in the distance, just past the water.

"It's real pretty here," she said. "This is technically Puget Sound, not the ocean, but it's just as salty. Those are the Olympic Mountains over there. There's a beautiful rain forest over on the peninsula. We should go visit it sometime."

"I don't really think we're going to be staying that long."

"You never know." She directed him to a bench and they sat for a few moments, people watching. It was midday on a Monday, so there were not too many people out. She pointed out some teenagers who were pushing each other into the water, letting Gibson know that the water temperature was probably only 40 degrees or so. "Not like Mexico, I know. But at least it's pretty here."

"How did you know I live in Mexico?"

"Gibson Andrew Praise," she said, and he'd never heard his name pronounced so sweetly. "You were born on January 1, 1987. You grew up in the Philippines. You were a chess genius, or so they thought," she added with a sly smile before giggling. "Ok, I'm kinda lying now, because I got all that from the silly obituary of yours. Which, by the way, scared me. I already knew about you then, and I couldn't believe you were dead. I'd thought we were going to meet one day. I'm glad I was wrong."

"What else do you know about me?"

She drew her knees up to her chest, hugging them tightly. "People have wanted to hurt you for a long time. You've been kidnapped several times because of what you can do. Your parents were killed to make you comply. The people you are with now – the woman that's with my dad and another man who didn't come – they've been watching out for you for a long time now. They're like your family. You were kidnapped recently while you were… traveling. But you're safe now."

Gibson gulped. He wondered if she'd seen what he'd been doing while he was traveling.

Again she turned to look at him, resting her head on her knee. "I know… I think I know… about your… future. But maybe you already know too?"

The flashes of what he did know came at him. He saw war and fire and felt pain and shuddered at his inevitable death, though he did not know when or exactly how it would come about. "It's all bad. I'd really rather not talk about it."

"All bad? Maybe you haven't seen it all."

"What have you seen?" he asked, eager for something to counteract the sadness he knew was his fate.

Biting her lip to keep her smile in check, she watched him again. He was getting the sense that there was something she wanted or needed to tell him, but was having a hard time.

"You can hold it back," she said cryptically.

"What do you mean?"

"Whatever it is that I pick up."

He still did not know what she meant. Suddenly unfolding her body, she sat cross-legged on the bench, facing him. "Straddle the bench and look at me. Give me your hands."

"I thought that would make things bad for you."

"I've seen things, Gibson. I've seen that something you can do makes it so that I can touch you. You can… quiet the thoughts. Does that make sense?"

He trembled a little as he thought of what the Mayans in the jungle had taught him years earlier, to control his thoughts so that they didn't spill out for all the witness. Was that what she meant? He nodded in response to her question, awkwardly placed his legs on either side of the bench they shared so that he could face her, and closed his eyes, pushing his thoughts away. He'd never really practiced regularly and now wished he had, for it took so much energy and attention to do it. When he came back to his body and opened his eyes some time later, her hands were holding his.

He was in love.

But then she fell back. He held tight to her hands and pulled her upright, turning her body so that it rested against the bench, grabbed her cell phone, and leapt away from her. He was trying to figure out how to search her contact list when her eyes opened.

"Are you ok?" he asked, fearing that she was going to cry. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. We should go back."

She nodded. "Call my father and tell him we're at Golden Gardens. I'll never make it back up those stairs."

After making the phone call, he began to apologize again. "Just sit," she instructed, and he complied, but sat as far from her as possible, letting her be while she dealt with the aftereffects of touching him.

Five minutes passed before she spoke again. "Have you ever thought about growing a beard?" It was not exactly what he was expecting to hear. "In my visions, you have a beard. It… it looks good."

He realized he would probably never pick up a razor again. "So, um, why exactly are you so fascinated with me? What have you seen?"

She smiled demurely at him. "That's my dad's car. We should head over."

But just before they reached Frank, she stopped and turned to him, finally answering his question. "Us. I've seen us. Together."


	100. Chapter 100

They rode back in silence – Frank was furious and concerned, Jordan's head ached, and Gibson was awash with feelings of guilt and incredulity at what Jordan had just told him. Back at the house, Frank escorted his daughter upstairs and Gibson went to join Monica and Mulder.

They were as close to parents as he had, and right now he desperately wanted parents to talk to. In truth, he wanted to be a child again and be able to run to his real mother for a hug, a kiss, and some words of encouragement. And even though he was much too old for it now, he still craved a long understanding hug from Monica and sympathetic words from Mulder.

As he walked into the living room, they looked up. _What happened?_ asked Monica silently, but Gibson could only shake his head and beg her with his eyes for a hug. He sat in between them and was relieved when Monica put an arm around him, pulling him in close. He knew that she could see the fear in his eyes. "Is she ok?" she whispered.

"I think so." He wanted to tell her everything, which felt odd to him, for he almost always kept his feelings so close. But right now, what Jordan had said was just too confusing and too overwhelming for him to keep to himself, plus his heart was bursting with an odd emotion – optimism. He wanted to scream for joy, announcing to the world that that girl upstairs believed they were meant to be together. Instead, he leaned heavily against Monica, hoping she would understand that he needed to talk to her later.

Frank's steps fell on the staircase and Gibson quickly sat upright, pulling out of Monica's grasp.

"Is she alright?" Monica asked again, this time to the father.

"She's resting now. She'll be better in a few hours. We're used to this, but it doesn't make it any less terrifying when it happens." He spoke with a scowl on his face.

Gibson couldn't take it. He was too worried about Jordan to mind his manners and immediately fell into Frank's head.

"You're holding back. You know a lot more about the Millennium Group than you said. And you're still connected to this, because of Jordan."

The tone of Frank's voice was unmistakably angry. "I asked you to stay out of my thoughts. If you cannot extend me that basic courtesy, I'll have to ask you all to leave."

Gibson returned Frank's stern look. "You don't want me in your head because you have too many secrets you don't want us to know."

Mulder narrowed his eyes. "What isn't he telling us?"

"That the Millennium Group is paying for Jordan's care. That they are hoping to use her one day. That the man we saw in Arizona – Timofey Szeftel – is not just a near stranger who dropped off a box of files, but someone he knows very well. You are working together to undermine the Millennium Group."

Frank Black took a seat and locked his hands together tightly, pressing them against his forehead. He did not speak.

"Is it true?" asked Monica. "Is there more that you are not telling us?"

"He doesn't know more about your birth mother though. Just about Szeftel, who may or may not know more."

"Then why did Szeftel send us here? What knowledge was it that we were supposed to discover?"

"The Sparrows," said Gibson plainly.

"We are here for an aviary lesson?" asked Mulder.

"The Roosters, the Owls, the Sparrows. There is another faction now."

"I think there's been enough talk for today," said Frank, rising from his seat. "A man is entitled to his own thoughts."

"Fine," said Gibson firmly. He could feel Frank's anger rising, and he knew that the man was on the verge of throwing them out, meaning that he would lose his chance to see Jordan again. "Then tell her about the Rocks. Tell her about Szeftel. Tell her what Szeftel told you about his time in Kayenta."

Frank sighed and sat back down. "The Rocks that Tell Secrets… that is roughly the translation from Navajo to English. To the Millennium Group, they are knows at The Whispers. It's a sacred place for the Navajo, and it was only through brute force, great threat, and the loss of some lives that The Millennium Group gained access to the location. For the Navajo, it is a place of great spiritual significance. It is a place of truth, where no lies can exist, but only for the chosen few. For the Millennium Group, it is a place of testing, to determine worthiness."

"This is where the body was found. This is where I could hear Gibson's thoughts," said Monica with delight.

"The Millennium Group believes that those who are sensitive to the location, who can indeed venture into the minds of those around them, they are worthy of induction into the Group. It is used often as a site of induction – the final test, which if passed, leads to immediate membership in the Group, for the person being tested now has access to the minds of those around him or her. Of course, those who are also susceptible are included in the ritual to ensure that the inductee is to be trusted."

"Did you know this before Gibson?" asked Mulder, wondering why the young man would leave out such a detail.

"No. The group members who were there only knew that the place was important. They did not know everything, and therefore, neither did I."

"But that is why Szeftel was there," conjectured Mulder. "He brought the boy there to test him."

Frank nodded. "Szeftel was given the test back in the 60s. The boy, Victor, is the son of his ex-wife and her husband, both members of the Owls. Szeftel belonged to the Roosters. The Owls hold the Whispers in disdain. But the boy was proving to be special. The parents were neglectful, to say the least, more involved in their careers than in the raising of the boy. Szeftel has maintained polite communication with his ex-wife and her husband, as they have all worked together for years, and when he volunteered to take the boy for vacations from time to time, the parents allowed it. He's grown close to the boy, and he believes the boy has great potential."

"And Szeftel himself?" asked Monica.

"Timofey was inducted into the Group at The Whispers. But it is more than that. He has a connection with the natural world that is almost unheard of. He realized at a very young age that whenever his life, health, or safety were in danger, no matter how slight, something would occur. It was not until he was nearly murdered in Saint Petersburg in 1976 that he realized what was going on."

Mulder and Monica looked at one another. "Squirrels," they said.

Black's raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You know this already."

Mulder explained his previous cases. Frank nodded. "All Szeftel, but not of his conscious efforts. He has learned over the years that certain animals, particularly squirrels, seem to come to his aid, whether it be to prevent him from walking on an icy patch of sidewalk or to attack and kill those who mean him harm. The man in Saint Petersburg, Leningrad then, was trying to rob him at knifepoint. The boy in Eugene was a far greater threat. He was evil, plain and simple. Evil manifests in many ways, sometimes in human form," he explained, and Monica and Mulder nodded with understanding.

"What of the men who were murdered in Kayenta during Szeftel's visits?" asked Monica. "The man in '68 – was he actually trying to murder Szeftel?"

"That man was sent by your father," Black started to say.

"Not my father. The man who impregnated my birth mother and then murdered her."

Frank shrugged. He had little patience for semantics at the moment. "The man who was murdered had been ordered to kill Szeftel and take … your birth mother. At Hattie's request, Szeftel had taken Ms. Henson to The Whispers. Hattie had been affected greatly by the rocks, and it was hoped that Anne would as well. That was where the man tracked them down. And that was where he died."

"And the man who died there last week?"

"Victor's father."

"I don't understand," said Monica.

"The boy's father was becoming more and more uncomfortable with Szeftel's concern and attention for the boy. He disapproved, and he believed The Whispers to be a fallacy. When he realized where Szeftel had taken Victor, he met them there. Pointing a gun at my friend, he demanded the boy come to him, but the boy hesitated, and that is when the attack began."

"But how is it that Szeftel came to be in Kayenta the same time as me?"

The corners of Frank's mouth moved up slightly. "Coincidence or fate, depending on your side of the argument. He recognized you from the records office. Though they were on their way out of town to avoid getting noticed by the Millennium Group, he stayed to speak to you."

"This only just happened. You must have spoken to Szeftel recently," said Mulder.

"He did call to let me know he'd tried to send you on to me. He was worried you might not get the message. But obviously, you did."

* * *

A/N – All this talk about a strange Russian man, his ex-wife's son, and weird squirrel behavior is actually an homage to Vladimir Nabokov's novel _Pnin_, which I was reading while plotting this section of the story.


	101. Chapter 101

It was agreed that they would spend one more night in Seattle, trying one more time to find some answers about the fate of Monica's birth mother. Back at the motel, Monica called her family, but there was little that they felt they could say safely over the phone. Discussing Gibson and the Millennium Group were both off limits, and even discussing what Vera's dreams might mean in connection to William made her wary. But hearing the voices of her family brought a smile to her face and made her wish for a quicker resolution to the events in Seattle so that she could return to them.

She had just hung up when there was a knock on her door. It was Mulder. "I'm not sure what you've done to Gibson over the last six years, but that is not the same boy I knew," he said smiling.

"What's going on? Is he talking again?" she asked, inviting him in.

"Worse. I think he's meditating. I assume that's your doing."

"Ha. He was a very reluctant student when it came to meditation, yoga, and the finer points of spirituality. The only time I ever witnessed him meditating was when we lived in the jungle with the Mayan tribe. He wouldn't talk much about it, but what I understand is that because they could all read minds, they had to develop certain mental skills to control their thoughts and keep them from being read by others." She looked away for a second, off in the direction of Mulder and Gibson's room, and then sat down. "I think I know what's going on."

Mulder took a seat opposite her. "Is it about the girl?"

Her smile was gentle and melancholic. "I think he might be in love. And I think he's trying to keep his thoughts from affecting her. He must feel terribly guilty for whatever happened to her at the beach."

"I just hope he doesn't get hurt."

"Of course. I'll talk to him tonight."

Mulder took a bag of sunflower seeds out of his pocket, offering some to Monica, who passed. "I think you've been good for him. You and Doggett both. He really is a different person. He's grown up a lot since we were stuck in a trailer together for a year."

"The teenage years are always a time of great growth and development."

"I think he's better for it, though. He was so withdrawn before, so closed off from the world. Now he's taking charge of situations, smiling on occasion, falling in love. I swear he even cracked a joke this morning while we were getting ready."

"I cannot lay claim to creating that. He was just a scared teenage boy when we took him in. We just did our best to keep him safe and see that his needs were met. We tried to guide him as much as he would allow us, all the while trying not to overstep our boundaries as his guardians."

"It's more than that. He trusts you. I can see it when he looks at you. He never looked at me like that. He always wanted to protect me, and he knew that I wanted to protect him, but he never fully trusted me like that."

"Of course he trusted you, Mulder."

"Believed me, yes. Knew I would never put him in danger, yes. But this was only because he could read my mind. There's a certain amount of trust he automatically has in anyone. But I'm talking about trust of another sort."

"Like emotional trust?"

"Yes, like that. I get the sense that if you didn't already suspect that he liked Jordan, he would tell you himself."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. He's still a young man, and I'm still just a mother-type figure to him. Surely you did not confide in your mother whenever you were in love."

"Of course not. Perhaps it's just that I see in his eyes the desire to confide in you."

She watched for it in Gibson's eyes the next morning. If he was reading her thoughts, then he would know all about her conversation with Mulder and her current quandary, but he gave no signs. When they arrived the next morning, Jordan was at the door before they had even closed the gate, with a smile on her face that made both Mulder and Monica suspect that she reciprocated Gibson's possible feelings.

"Is it alright if I show Gibson my garden while you talk to my dad?"

Monica needed Gibson there to keep Frank from hiding and obfuscating the truth, but she could not get in the way of whatever was transpiring between the two. She nodded in approval but tapped Gibson on the shoulder to get his attention.

_Keep an ear on things, if you can remember. And be careful. Keep your mind in control._

He blushed when he realized that she knew. He hadn't bothered getting into her mind at all in the last twelve hours, as his own mind was consumed by thoughts of Jordan.

He looked at Jordan, who was still beaming. She motioned for him to follow her around the side of the house. Following her was like walking into a fairy tale. He felt like an adventurer being led by a sprite as they walked through a tunnel of hanging tree branches. He could hear her giggling under her breath and when she looked back at him, joy shining through her expressions and lighting up her eyes, he honestly felt faint.

"Have you been practicing?" asked Jordan as they walked entered the garden. Gibson nodded. She looked so beautiful today, perhaps even prettier than the day before. Her hair was red today, not carrot red, but red red, pulled up into the same sloppy bun as the first day they'd met, and he noticed for the first time that her nails were painted black. Unlike before, she wore makeup – heavy mascara and her lips shone with pink lip gloss. He felt unbelievably uncool in his loose jeans and polo shirt. He also felt unkempt, having forgone his morning shave, but if she thought he looked good with a beard, then a beard he would grow. "Good," she said. "I hope you don't mind staying in the garden. Daddy will never let me leave today after what happened yesterday. Anyway, I'm proud of my garden."

It was a sight to see. There were six raised vegetable beds in the middle, and bushes, roses, and various flowers and trees all around the sides, all looking like something out of a magazine. "You did this yourself?" he asked amazed.

"Not much else to do when you can't leave home. Besides, I really like growing things. You know, when the world is going to end and most of humanity is going to die, there's something pure and refreshing working with plants. Even if every person on the planet was wiped out, plants would still continue. I like your alias, by the way. Joshua Green."

"I'm glad you like green things," he said, feeling foolish the moment he said it, but she smiled at him.

"I do. I think it goes well with Jordan Black, too, don't you?" She turned back to the house. "I wish my father wasn't watching. He doesn't trust you. But only because he knows who you are to me too. He doesn't want to accept it."

"What am I to you, exactly?"

Her face fell a little and she looked over at a corner of her garden. "You are everything to me. Well, you will be. You're the man I'm going to marry." Taking one quick uncertain look at him then tilting her head, she began to walk off to the distant corner.

Gibson laughed as he followed. "Me? You ever think your visions might not always be correct?"

She was not laughing when she stopped and turned back to him. "Turn it off, right now, your thoughts. And don't screw it up this time, no matter what." He didn't have much time to prepare, because her hands had grabbed his shoulders and her lips were pressed against his, but only for a second.

"Thank you," she said, taking a safe step away from him. "And I'm sorry I'm such a bad kisser. I've never kissed anyone before."

Gibson was shell shocked and speechless. Had that really just happened? He looked at her with incredulity, his mouth slightly open.

"You could tell me that it wasn't all that bad, you know."

"No… I… it was… it was perfect." He could barely breathe. "You are perfect. Why in the world would fate put you with me?"

"Because you are the perfect person for me."

Inside the house, Frank Black stood at the sliding door, scowling as he watched the backyard. He hadn't missed the look his daughter had given him just before she slipped into a hidden recess of the yard with the young man. He'd known – of course he'd known – about Gibson, but he hadn't realized until seeing the young man what his presence meant to his life. Jordan was all he had left in the world. As her father, he could not help but want only the absolute best for her and Gibson was certainly not what he ever pictured. He wanted Jordan to have a normal life. He wanted her to find a tall, handsome husband, who worked a regular job, maybe an accountant or a lawyer. He wanted her to find in him wedded bliss, which he himself had ultimately failed to find in his wife Catherine. He wanted Jordan to have children, and he wanted the smile on her face to come from all of the joys he imagined for her.

Instead, she smiled at this boy, who stood a couple inches shorter than her, who was plain and emotionless, who read minds and destroyed his peace. The previous night, after their guests had left, they fought. Fights were inevitable, especially given that Jordan was mostly homebound and had no one besides her stodgy old father for company. They'd fought so much after her abilities had begun to impact her life. She hadn't wanted to leave school, even though by the time she left, she spent most of the school day in trances, unable to focus on classes. They'd fought about the doctor. She hadn't wanted him to step back into the clutches of the Millennium Group, but he had no choice – they had come to him, offering free care, and no regular doctor would have been able to help her. No regular doctor would have accepted her condition or worked within its parameters. The Millennium doctor she saw had given her a fake diagnosis of epilepsy, for dealing with all the public facets of life, all the while working to supposedly find a way to ease her condition so that she could function in a crowded world.

He thought he'd been so calm and rational the night before, telling her why he didn't want her to spend time with the boy. She hadn't understood. She insisted they were destined for one another, and when he'd told her that she shouldn't take her visions as guides for what to do, but rather guides for what to avoid, she had coldly told him to stay out of her life, before walking up the stairs and slamming her door. She refused to speak to him, refused to eat the dinner he'd placed on a tray outside her room, refused to talk to him in the morning. Instead, in the middle of the night, he'd awoken to hear her walking through the house and hiding in the bathroom for an hour, running the water occasionally and using the blow dryer. He wasn't shocked by the red hair in the morning, and tried to be polite about it. "I like the color, Jordan," he lied. She only glared back at him, before taking her morning cup of tea to go sit in the window seat that faced the front gate.

Frank was aware that his guests were watching him, but he did not care. They had their files – he'd relented and given them the entire box, mostly to keep them out of his hair. Why they had to be in his life, he could not say. Who was he to them? He wanted them gone, and the sooner they found whatever it was they were looking for, the sooner they would take away the young man who was causing so much discord in his life.

"Monica," said Mulder. "Look at this. It's a reference to a program started by a Richard Henson in the 60s. He writes about how challenging it is for women in the sciences to find respectable and challenging employment. He's quoted as saying, 'Too often we see women – bright, capable women who are equals and superiors to their male colleagues – being pushed aside so that less capable men may do their jobs. This is 1964 – we are not living in the Stone Age, yet we still insist on keeping women in the home. How are we as a species ever to truly advance when we subjugate half of our population? We must not fail to see the value women bring to the sciences. It pains me to think of where we as a society could be today if we had not spent millennia restricting women and suppressing them.' He sounds like he was ahead of his time."

"He sounds like a man who loved his daughter," Frank added, still staring out into the backyard.

"What was the program?" asked Monica.

"He cites the affirmative action cases that were happening in the early 60s and proposes that the Millennium Group take an active role in fostering and supporting women in the sciences. Frank, do you know much about the research the Owls were doing in reference to the collision of the neutron stars? I think this might be connected, but it's vague. Henson says that 'women should be included on project 1102.'"

"I'm sorry, I don't know." He wished that he could help them, if only to get them away faster. He wished that whatever it was, it would require them to go far away from Seattle, to the other side of the world, and that he would never see them again. He wished his daughter would return from that hidden corner of the garden.

Instead, they finished going through the files, finding nothing more about project 1102, and no more references to Anne/Tiba, Haseya, or Richard Henson.

"It's a dead end," Monica finally proclaimed that evening.

Frank nodded solemnly. "I'm sorry you did not find the answers you were seeking."

She looked through the notes she had taken. They barely filled two pages, and that included the entire quote from Richard about women. There were no clues about where to go next, no hints as to what might have been her birth mother's fate. Yet despite this, she felt strangely optimistic. The answers existed, somewhere, and she would find them eventually. She was meant to.


End file.
